


Burn It All

by Smokemycancer



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2013-04-13
Packaged: 2017-12-08 09:45:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 23,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/759949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smokemycancer/pseuds/Smokemycancer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>IanMick. Really, he was just kind of sick of everything. Sick of pushing people away. Sick of being told nice try. Sick of living in filth. Sick of faking it. Sick of being a fuck up. Sick of seeing those he cared for suffering because of those he hated. Sick of hating himself. So fuck it. Mickey burned everything to the ground and Ian watched.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Relax

**Author's Note:**

> Set after S2.

Ian stared out of his window, across the house tops for as far as he could see out. He was supposed to be going swimming at the recreation center with Mandy today, but she had bailed on him because today Mickey was being released early from juvie. Ian had let her go alone this time. And when Mandy teased him about walking alone through a bad neighborhood, Ian laughed even though his memories brought on a sinking feeling in the pit of his chest. So Ian was stuck home with his feelings. Alone because everyone else was out doing whatever. Ian wasn't quite sure what.

He let go of the curtain and walked over to his dresser. The top drawer held his and Lip's goodie bag and pipe. Feeling especially drained mentally, Ian filled up the pipe and resealed the baggy. He hid the weed in the sock he'd taken it from, then shut the drawer and walked over to his bed. By the time he had finished off his bowl, Ian felt body heavy and light headed. He sat the pipe down beside of him on the bed and flung his arms up over his head, sprawled out and relaxed. Ian laid like that until his thoughts took him down a path he didn't much care for. The opposite effect he had been going for. When he finally sat up, the room pulsated around him. He stilled until he was able to stand and make his way across the hall and down the back stairs, to the kitchen. Ian's socks slid smoothly across the floor as he poured himself a, too large for him to actually finish, bowl of cereal. The cereal sloshed about in the huge popcorn bowl as Ian situated himself at the kitchen table and chowed down. Debbie would be pissed that Ian had eaten all of the Frosted Flakes again. Stopping mid-bite, Ian stared down at the bowl. A cluster of soppy flakes splashed back into the milk. Ian felt a little guilty. But it was too late now to put some of the cereal back into the box, which he had already thrown out anyway. Ian took the bite and figured he would just go to the Kash and Grab and buy Debbie another box after some of his high wore off.

It had actually been quite a while since Ian had smoked more than just a couple hits off of a joint from either Lip or Mandy. Once from Loyd. Much less an entire bowl all by his lonesome. So he was being hit pretty hard by his high, unexpectedly. This was because Ian had been working extra hard his last year in high school. Hadn't been screwing around. As Fiona and Steve liked to put it: Ian was getting his shit together and stepping up to being an actual person. That wasn't to say that Ian had gone straight edge. He had simply cut back on a lot of bullshit, like getting high too often, hanging around the clubs with Loyd, and getting involved with anything too illegal. Instead, Ian spent his time either at work, studying, at the gym, or hanging out with his brother or Mandy when he wasn't too exhausted and they were already busy. Ian wanted desperately to prove Frank wrong. Wanted to get into West Point more than anything.

Because of his dedication, Ian had gained a solid ten pounds of extra muscle and a growing knowledge in physics. His test scores still weren't high enough, though, and Ian was lately growing a little discouraged. He hadn't mentioned that fact to anyone other than Liam, who could barely piece together short sentences, much less rat out Ian. It was that sense of failure creeping up on Ian again, and he couldn't bare it. Ian was sick of feeling like second best. Sick of hearing people tell him nice try. Or better luck next time. And sick of seeing things he liked go away because he sucked at making a bad situation better. Really, he was just kind of sick of it all. His stress levels were far too high for someone who was barely about to turn eighteen. Loyd had blow Ian off and not in the preferred way. Mandy was too far up Lip's ass lately, and vice-versa, which left Ian to the wayside more often than not. And now Mickey was coming home, so Ian's still bleeding heart now had that to worry over. It seemed like Ian never caught a break.

Maybe Mickey would just stay away. The thought both helped matters and made Ian sicker.

His thoughts were all over the place. The high was sour. Ian frowned and jerked the half eaten bowl of cereal up to dump it down the sink. He didn't bother rinsing away the splashed milk and bits still floating around. Went back upstairs and fell asleep face down on the pillows of his messy bed.

He woke up later because Lip was making too much noise digging around in the closet. Groggy but finally sobered up, Ian pushed his top half up and pivoted to squint up at Lip. "What are you doing?" Ian slurred.

Lip stopped and looked over at Ian, his eyes flickering about with secrets. He said nothing and hurried to pull his shirt off without even bothering to unbutton. The garment sailed behind Lip, covering Ian's forgotten pipe, which had fallen from the bed and rolled away. Ian looked down at the shirt which was ripped. He noticed then that Lip had a black eye and a busted mouth.

Ian sat up fully and rubbed his face with both hands, sniffing up his sleepiness and clearing his throat. He scratched his chest once. "What the hell?" Ian asked, resting his hands on his knees, feet dangling from the bed. "Who did you get into it with?"

Pulling a shirt down from the closet, Lip turned around so that Ian finally saw the building bruises along his brother's side.

"Jesus!" Ian breathed.

"It's nothing," Lip said, but sounded far too angry for his words to hold any clout.

"Bullshit," Ian said, pointing at Lip's bruises even though Lip wasn't looking his way still.

Lip pulled the shirt over his head and turned around, frowning. "Fucking Mandy got pissed at me," Lip said bluntly. He stood there, hands on his hips, watching Ian's reaction.

Ian couldn't see himself, but figured the realization of what he assumed had gone on over at the Milkovich house showed. "Mickey?" he asked, nodding to Lip's bruises again, features twisting into anger.

"No," Lip said, "Mandy."

Confused, Ian rolled his eyes. "She does a lot of damage for a girl," he said.

"She's Mandy," Lip said, as if no more explanation was necessary.

Ian relaxed his face and cocked his brows, seeing his brother's point. He watched Lip pick up the pack of smokes from the dresser top and light one up. Lip blew smoke in Ian's direction and offered up the pack. Ian shook his head, waving away the offer. Shrugging, Lip tossed the pack back.

"What's she angry about?" Ian asked, curious because Mandy wasn't like her brothers; she only hit if she was boiling mad, whereas the Milkovich boys would hit out of boredom.

And when Ian watched his brother frown and look away, then try to play off his hesitation, he figured he already knew the answer. Like a match, Ian lit up, scowling. "Are you fucking serious?" he growled, reaching behind him to grab a pillow and chuck it at his brother's head harshly.

Lip dodged the pillow just barely. The cigarette he had in his mouth fell and scorched his bare foot through the thong of his flip-flops. The older boy cursed loudly and kicked at the offending cigarette. Then rushed to pick it up before it caught something on fire. He held the cigarette, looked at it in anger, then glared at Ian. "Watch what you're fucking doing!" he snapped, eyes wide and somewhat scary.

Ian stood up and towered over his brother. He had grown four inches tall than Lip, now standing at a solid six feet and four inches. He shoved at Lip's chest, still scowling, his brows draw together and his lips pursed. "No," he barked, "you need to watch what you're doing, Lip!" After Lip took a few steps back, fists ready, Ian huffed and shook his head. He looked pointedly at Lip, hoping to avoid an actual fist fight. That hadn't been his intention. Although in hindsight, Ian supposed shoving Lip hadn't been the best way to go about civil discussion. He grasped his hips and wetted his lips, gaining composure. "You're messing around with fire," Ian said, calmly. "Mandy's family is crazy. And you're crazy for getting that involved with her in the first place," Ian pressed, and when Lip tried to interrupt, spoke over top of his older brother, saying, "You're bat-shit insane to cheat on her with Karen! Don't get me started on the reasons for that," he finished, laughing bitterly as he said the last part.

"And you think Mandy doesn't fuck around on me?" Lip spat. "She sleeps with half of the fucking football team!"

Trying not to react, Ian walked past Lip, bumping into him and jarring his shoulder. As he walked out of the room to go take a piss and leave Lip standing there lamely, Ian said, "No. She doesn't. Mandy's in love with your dumb ass."

Such was the nature of the remainder of Ian's day. One argument after another. With literally each person in the household. Even Steve. Everyone was in a foul mood. Ian guessed it boiled down to the unexpected heatwave midway through April and lack of air-conditioning. That and the fact Frank was home again, pissing on everyone's parade.

It was about three days later, on Ian's way back from picking Debbie up from a friend's house near the lake, that he saw Mickey again for the first time.

Debbie's sleepover had ended with one of the other girls cutting her hair out of meanness, to which Debbie had beaten the fuck out the other girl. Thus causing the parents to phone Fiona at two in the morning. Fiona, who wasn't home. So Ian had gone to pick Debbie up because he had been the one to answer the call, and Lip was with Mandy. Somewhere. Hopefully apologizing. Ian was especially sore from the gym because he had pressed himself a little too hard. And Debbie was sniffling and crying because someone had called a dyke at the party. Ian pulled himself from his thoughts and looked down at his younger sister. Her hair was pinned up, but Ian could see how sort and choppy one side was. The makeup Mandy had helped Debbie put on for the party was running down her childish face. Ian watched Debbie tug at her frog pajamas while they walked the street. Getting air before taking her home had been Ian's idea. When he had seen just how upset that Debbie actually was, he figured maybe the night breeze off of Lake Michigan might make her feel better. After all, the shoreline was only slightly out of the way.

Ian glanced down at Debbie. "You're not a dyke, Debs," he said, gripping her shoulder and giving it a solid squeeze. "And so what if you were? Don't let people get to you so badly."

Debbie looked up at him, eyes bloodshot, and wiped at the mascara on her cheeks. "They cut my hair!" she wailed.

Ian sighed and told her Mandy could fix it. Either Mandy or Veronica, whoever Debbie thought would do a better job. That seemed to make Debbie feel a little better. As they walked, Debbie grabbed a hold of Ian's hand, surprising him a little. He looked to the side and grinned softly down at her, bumping her with his hip. "Cheer up," he said as they walked out onto the sand just barely, "at least you broke her nose."

That made Debbie smile, and Ian chuckled.

It was a cool night, despite the current random heatwave. The siblings stood there. Debbie let go of Ian's hand and wiped at her face until it was partly clean. Ian crossed his arms as he caught a chill, and rubbed at the gooseflesh on his forearms. He looked out at the body of water. Everything looked black mostly. The city lights lit up shoreline just enough. Ian lost himself in his thoughts. When he finally pulled his eyes away from the water to look down the expanse of sand, his gaze landed on the back of a figure sitting close to the water. He was sitting a few yards away, but still close enough to catch certain details. Ian was too far to make out much of the person he saw, but could tell that whoever the man was, he was smoking a cigarette. The smoke billowed around the man. Ian watched the guy flick his ashes and stretch out one of his legs. Relaxed. Or that's how it appeared. Ian envied the stranger. Lately Ian and relaxation were becoming distant.

A kid on a bike rode toward where Ian and Debbie stood. The light on the front of the bike flashed quickly, illuminating the sand and part of man Ian was watching. Stopping his ride, the kid drank from the water bottle by his hip. Ian kept his eyes trained forward, squinting at the stranger, who was unaware of the biker and the light. The stranger leaned down backward, onto his elbow. Slowly realization creeped up on Ian. The cigarette the man was holding was a rolled joint. And the man was Mickey. But just when Ian caught on, the kid and his biked moved on, and Mickey was swallowed in the darkness again.

Debbie tugged Ian's sleeve. "I'm sleepy now," she said. "Let's go home, Ian."

He tore his eyes away from Mickey and looked down at Debbie. She yawned. Ian's heart was racing now, and that sick feeling was back in his stomach. He nodded, mouth tight so as not to display his sudden emotions. And Debbie was immediately on the move. Ian trudged up to the road after her, only looking back over his shoulder once. Mickey had turned his head, staring, or so it looked. Ian had the strange feeling that Mickey saw him, recognized Ian. His stomach flipped when he looked away and crossed the street after his sister.

Ian slept horribly that night.


	2. Movie Night

"Mickey, stop!" Mandy bellowed, grabbing hold of her brother's arm as he threw a chair across the room. The chair crashed against the wall, putting a hole through the wall and breaking as it hit the floor. It had barely missed Tony's head. The eldest Milkovich son dropped his arms from where he had been shielding himself, startled. He scowled and dashed forward. Mandy, who was still struggling with Mickey, put herself between the two, a hand on each chest. Mickey's breathing was heavy and erratic, his breath hot on her neck as he stared Tony down over Mandy's shoulder. Tony stared back, face set in angry stone and teeth bared. Mandy stood there in the thick tension, hands shaking a little because she worried for her safety, if she was being honest. Two Milkovich men going at it was never a good mix to throw oneself into. Even she knew that. She looked between her brothers, eyes daring. "Quit," she warned.

Mickey's breathing slowed. Mandy stared at him, watching his face relax a little. He swallowed a large gulp of air and licked the corner of his mouth before closing it. Tony slapped Mandy hand off of him, and when Mandy turned away from Mickey to snap at her least favorite sibling, Mickey took advantage of the situation and spat over Mandy's hair and right into Tony's left eye.

"Where the fuck where  _you_?" Mickey yelled, pointing at Tony, temper escalating rapidly. Again.

Mandy dived out of the way as Tony wiped his face and tried to headbutt Mickey. She fell into the coffee table, still screaming at her brothers. A neighbor would probably call the cops if they kept this up. Mickey fell back into the couch, Tony against him, punching Mickey in the side. And Mandy stood up and grabbed a glass halfway full of milk from the coffee table. Everything was happening so fast and in such a chaotic mess. She threw it at the two. And it was as if they didn't even notice. The glass landed against the arm of the sofa, missing them, but spilling all over both of their heads. Covered in luke-warm milk, the brothers fought still. Mickey grabbed hold of Tony's face, squeezing and clawing, his own face twisted into a rage Mandy had only caught sight of once before. Had hope to never see again. It was terrifying and reminded her too much of their father's fury.

Clawing at Tony's face, Mickey pushed his brother's head into the arm of the sofa, where most of the milk had spilled. Tony's neck was turned at an extremely odd angle, and Mandy feared that Mickey might break Tony's neck if he kept up. Fortunately, Tony had enough wits about him to knee Mickey in the groin. Huffing out a groan, Mickey let go of Tony. Tony threw Mickey onto the floor while the younger man was writhing in pain. The throw put Mickey into the coffee table. All of the clutter went flying. Mandy fell on her own ass and scooted away quickly. Tony bumbled forward, nose bleeding and a large gash across his forehead. He picked Mickey up by his collar and slung the smaller man in a circle, letting Mickey go abruptly. Mickey crashed into the television this time.

"I said to fucking stop!" Mandy spat, struggling to her feet and finally charging forward, throwing herself onto Tony's back. Her hair was wild and in her face, stuffed into her mouth as she was thrashed about. Tony bucked her off, and Mandy fell hard into the leg of the coffee table. Yelling out in pain and grabbing her back, Mandy rolled around, teeth bared, face a perfect example of immense pain. The wood had gashed her just under her ribcage. She could tell because it stung like a bitch, and her favorite white tank top was staining.

Mickey gained composer, and shoved Tony, face hardened but somehow calmer. Tony looked back at Mandy, apologizing. Mandy was glad the two had stopped fighting, but really wished it hadn't taken her getting hurt to stop them. Mickey flipped Tony off. "Just get out," he growled through his teeth, full of venom.

Tony wrinkled his nose at Mickey, told him to go fuck himself, apologized to Mandy again, and then stomped off to his old room. Old because Tony was finally moving out. Had actually been living in the house for the last few months and had been collecting the last of his things earlier. That had been the reason for his visit today.

As Tony stormed back out, carrying two trash bags full of who knew what, Mickey had dropped to his knees beside of Mandy, helping her sit up. He looked up at Tony briefly, scowling, then shook his head and put pressure on Mandy's side. Tony slammed the door and the wall shook. Finally the house was quiet. Mandy pushed herself with her feet as Mickey pulled her toward the couch. She leaned back on the foot of the couch and held her hand over Mickey's on her side, looking at Mickey and wincing. Yet scowling at the same time. A look she secretly hated she was wonderful at pulling off.

Mickey peeling his hand back, and Mandy hissed in pain and hurried to put her own hand back against the wound. Frowning, Mickey tugged Mandy's hand back. She cussed him, but Mickey, as usual, didn't give two fucks. With one hand he held Mandy's hand back and with the other he lifted her shirt high enough to see the wound.

"Ouch!" Mandy screeched, punching Mickey in the shoulder. "That fucking hurts, you asshole!" she growled.

Mickey pursed his lips and stared at Mandy with wide, sarcastic eyes, saying, "You want to bleed out, then?"

Reluctantly, Mandy sighed and let Mickey look at her gash.

"It's not that bad," Mickey commented, letting Mandy's shirt down. He waved behind him and then started pushing up to his feet. "Go wash up," he said, straightening out his clothes, then added, "Just put some Bandaids on it, you god damned baby." And though his words were harsh, Mandy didn't miss the half grin her brother gave her before he started picking up the rubble.

When she came back from the bathroom, shutting Mickey's door behind her, Mandy stared at Mickey's back. He was rearranging the coffee table; propping it up with the two books that were mysteriously in the house. No one here read, and Mandy wasn't sure where the books had come from. Probably something Ian or Lip had left behind. They were props now. She leaned against the hallway frame and crossed her arms. She had changed into a different shirt. It was Mickey's; the cleanest one Mandy had found in the mess Mickey called a bedroom. She didn't want to wear her own shirts because most of them were too tight and would rub her side horribly. Mickey finished with the coffee table and stood up straight. From his profile, Mandy could tell her brother was still in turmoil. "Mick?" she called out quietly, getting his attention.

Mickey turned a little, glancing back at Mandy, face drawn. He held her stare. "How long?" Mickey asked.

Many knitted her brow. She knew what he was getting at and wished he would just leave it alone already.

"How fucking long, Mandy?" Mickey bit out, a little heated this time.

Mandy shook her head, swallowing hard and looking away from her brother's intense stare. She clenched her fists against her, trying not to hurt her wound but trying to ground herself. "I don't know," she whispered, suddenly ashamed.

"What?" Mickey asked, mouth dropping open and brows going up. "You don't know?" he laughed bitterly.

Turning back at him, frowning deeply, Mandy raised her lip and said, "Since mom left. There! Are you fucking happy now, Mickey? He's been fucking me since mom left!" Her voice threatened to break and Mandy slammed a fist against the wall beside her, trying to hold herself together.

"No, I'm not fucking happy!" Mickey roared, throwing his arms up and approaching her a little. He stopped a foot away, staring across at Mandy, pursing his lips into a wide frown, clearly fighting to hold his tongue. Mandy watched Mickey fume. Finally he brought a hand up and rubbed his face. "I'm going to kill him," he said calmly through his fingers.

Mandy rolled her eyes. "No you're not," she said. But something inside of her quivered because she could see it in Mickey's eyes that he was close to the edge. She wanted desperately to pull him back. So Mandy said what she hoped would help a little. She told him that their father didn't remember coming into her room sometimes. That he was always drunk or high when it happened. That Terry felt terrible about what had happened and had been drinking himself stupid since her abortion. That he was already killing himself, slowly. For Mickey to just forget he had even found out. That all Mandy wanted was for everything to go back to being fucking normal.

He just closed his eyes and breathed. Mandy watched Mickey take in what she had said. Watched him tilt his head down, bury his hands into the pockets of his zipped up hoodie-vest, and sigh. When he spoke, his voice was calm but held sadness. "And that makes it okay somehow?" Mickey eventually said, opening his eyes and staring at the floor as if it had offended him. "No," he went on, looking up at Mandy, "It's not okay. Nothing is okay."

"Mickey—''

"Stop," Mickey said, putting a hand out as he cut Mandy off. He rubbed his temples. "I need some fucking air," he said, shaking his head again and walking towards the door. He looked like the wind had been taken out of him.

Mandy didn't follow because she knew when her brother needed space. But she watched Mickey leave and her stomach sank. Mandy wasn't sure what her brother was going through internally, but she was pretty sure it must be serious, and must have been going on a lot longer than just today. Mickey seemed far too weighed down with a burden. He hadn't been right since she's picked him up from juvie last week. Something was off with Mickey, and Mandy would have been worried, if she wasn't in so much pain from her side. She pushed off of the frame and hobbled over to the sofa, sitting down. Unfortunately, she had forgotten about the spilled milk, and got her ass wet. Cursing under her breath, Mandy scooted out of the wet spot and curled her legs up under her as she leaned back, laying mostly flat and using the armrest as a pillow. She reached into the pocket of her jean skirt and pulled out her cellphone. It was a crappy flip-phone and had only about one hundred minutes left on it. Mandy looking through her contacts until she found Lip's phone number. She stared at the phone for a while. Debating.

Lip was probably out fucking Karen Jackson again. Mandy seethed, grinding her teeth together. She forcefully tossed her phone to the foot of the sofa and growled to herself. Staring up at the ceiling, Mandy thought maybe she would just phone Ian instead. The ginger was apparently the only decent man she had in her life. Too bad he was gay.

Wincing as she sat up, Mandy fetched the phone back and called Ian. She knew he wasn't at work today. It was Saturday, his day off. And it was pretty late, so Mandy figured Ian was likely at home winding down. When he answered, Mandy could tell he had been napping.

"You wanna come over and watch a movie or something?" Mandy asked, twirling a piece of her hair, frowning out into space and really hoping Ian would just say yes. Because she really didn't want to be alone right now. And who knew when Mickey would be back. He had been leaving for hours every night since getting out of juvie. Sometimes he didn't get back in until past two in the morning.

"I don't know," Ian said, groggy and clearly hesitant, "I kind of promised Fiona I would clean up some," he trailed.

Mandy punched the cushion beneath her, holding her temper. She sighed out heavily, fast and annoyed. "You've been avoiding me, Ian," she said bluntly. "Quit making excuses. Get your ass over here now," she went on, "or fuck you!"

All was quiet on Ian end. Mandy heard him moving around. Eventually he sighed and told her he would be over in a few minutes. And for him to have lived so close, it took Ian quite a while to knock on her door.

The movie they ended up watching was so boring that Mandy wanted to claw her eyes out. "Great choice," she teased Ian, tossing a piece of popcorn at his face, her legs draped over his legs.

Ian smiled at her goofy, pinching her calf. She laughed and kicked at him. The clock said it was after one in the morning, so Mandy figured it was close to two actually, since the batteries in that clock were dying. Ian yawned loudly, then leaned forward and swiped the can of soda that was either his or hers, Mandy wasn't sure, from the coffee table. He swigged the rest of it, the crushed the can and sat it back on the coffee table. Knitting his brow and smirking, confused as he looked down at something, Ian said, "Why is my book holding up your table?"

Mandy looked down, following Ian's gaze. She shrugged and shifted back into place, throwing another piece of popcorn at Ian's ear this time. "Broke it," she said simply. It was the truth, only sans the details. Mandy hoped Ian wouldn't actually press the issue because Mandy had just gotten the incident off of her mind. But Mandy wasn't lucky, so of course he did. Casually and unintentionally upsetting Mandy. He looked at Mandy strangely when she scowled at him and nearly bit his head off.

"What the hell is your problem?" Ian asked, hurt and confused.

Mandy stopped scowling at him, her face slowly falling into regret. She puffed out her cheeks and blew out for a long time, frustrated. Tilting her head back on the armrest, Mandy apologized for being a bitch. "Just a lot of stuff going on since Mickey came home," she explained. Mandy didn't miss the odd look that crossed Ian's face. Or how quickly he tried covering it up. She frowned, wondering if Ian's avoiding her for the past week had anything to do with Mickey. She was putting two and two together, and honestly it looked to her like Ian's avoiding her must have everything to do with Mickey. And she wasn't sure why. Mandy thought instead of just asking Ian, since he probably wouldn't be honest anyway, she would skirt the issue until she had enough information to piece together the puzzle herself. So she decided to keep talking about Mickey.

Ian stopped her mid-sentence after a few minutes of Mandy talking about Mickey's weird moods. "Say that again," Ian said, pulling a disbelieving face.

Mandy frowned, cocking a brow. "He's been leaving every night. I think he's on drugs," she said. "What do you think?" she pressed. "Does that sound like someone who's on drugs?" She sat up, pulling her legs under her and sitting the popcorn bowl on the floor. "Cause I know a lot of people get hooked on heroin and stuff when they're in jail," Mandy sighed out, staring intently at Ian. "It happened to my dad and all."

Scratching his head and looking away, appearing to be surprised, Ian cleared his throat. "Maybe," he said, shrugging. "But most people don't get hooked on drugs from just a year in juvie," he added. Then he furrowed his brow, and Mandy had to squint to catch the worry on his face, but she saw it. "Maybe he just has a lot on his mind," Ian trailed.

The hell was that about? She gnawed her bottom lip, curious now more so than before.

"Nah," Mandy said, yawning. Her eyes closed briefly, but she opened one to observe her best friend. "Mickey doesn't really do a lot of thinking," she said, feeling sleepy now.

Ian looked at her for a second, eyes searching, then gave a half-hearted grin and snorted. He reached over and patted Mandy's shoulder once. After that he stretched and began standing. Mandy's eyes followed him like magnets. "I should go," Ian said, smiling honestly now. "I'm about to pass out."

Mandy hummed in agreement and saw him to the door. When she shut the door and turned off the television, Mandy stood in the middle of her cramped living room with all of the lights now out. She stared at herself in the darkened screen until her vision became focused to see enough. Finally she made her way into her bedroom and curled up under her covers. She shut her eyes tightly and told herself that everything would be okay. She laid there waiting for Mickey to come home. His snores helped her sleep at night.


	3. Express Myself

Ian left Mandy's house and stood at the foot of her stoop for a few minutes, lighting a cigarette and taking a few drags. He stared off across the street. Listened to a dog barking in the distance. When he got sick of staring at a neighbor's house, Ian turned his attention to the El just off to the side. His neck craned as he studied the pillars.

"The fuck you doing here this late?"

Ian stilled at the sound of Mickey's voice. His eyes widened and slowly he looked down. His ex fuck buddy stood almost directly in front of him now, just staring at Ian seriously. Ian blinked a few times. He wasn't really sure how to handle this situation. Thus why he had been avoiding coming over to Mandy's house. Mickey had hurt him worse than the asshole was probably aware. Or maybe Mickey knew. Ian thought Mickey might. A person would have had to be stupid not to know, and Ian knew that Mickey wasn't stupid. Uneducated, yes, but smart as a fucking whip. Wasted potential.

He stared at Mickey, taking in the changes. Ian hadn't visited Mickey in juvie. In fact hadn't caught sight of him but once since his return. And that once, Mickey had been hidden in shadows. Not up close and fully visible. Now Ian could see that Mickey was paler somehow, if it was possible. His eyes looked tired, black beneath. He had shaved cleanly. Was thinner. Last time Mickey had bulked up in juvie, but this time he seemed to have leaned out. This was made apparent by the way Mickey's hooded vest hung a little looser than Ian remembered. Ian knew his staring was probably making Mickey uncomfortable, so he stopped and met Mickey's eyes.

"Mandy needed company," Ian said firmly, trying not to let his feelings of hurt and anger show.

Even though they hadn't seen each other since the blow up at work, Ian knew a year was long enough for Mickey to had come to terms with his decision. It had certainly been long enough for Ian to grasp it and move on. To realize that he could do better than someone who didn't give enough of a shit about him to even allow for one fucking kiss or the occasional kind gesture. What they had once had been no more than just a quick fuck and the occasional conversation. Mostly one-sided, Ian figured, thinking back on it. Yes, it hurt, and looking at Mickey drudged up hard feelings, but Ian refused to let the man before him control his life. In any way.

Mickey looked Ian over. He sniffed and pulled a hand from the pocket in his vest, scratching his cheek. "She awake?" he asked, remaining just as serious as Ian was trying to be.

Ian nodded. He looked down at Mickey's legs and feet as Mickey shoved past Ian abruptly and walked up the stoop. Mickey's feet were covered in dried, caked on sand. He was barefoot. Ian frowned and watched Mickey open the door and step in partially. Ian winced and was angry at his sign of weakness, when Mickey turned back, ready to shut the door.

"You seen my dad?" Mickey asked bluntly.

Caught off guard, Ian frowned. He shook his head and then Mickey slammed the door in his face. He was about to walk away, back turning, when Ian heard the door creak back open quickly. He stilled, eyes staring out into space, searching, confused and angry. Gathering up his nerve, Ian turned back around and looked up at Mickey as he stepped outside and shut the door. Ian's heart pounded in his head. Ian gritted his teeth because, damn it, he was past this. He was.

Mickey wetted his lips and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his tan shorts. He looked down quickly, then back up at Ian, and this time his face was unreadable. "You see him," Mickey said, and Ian knitted his brow, "tell me immediately."

It was then that Ian honestly wondered what was going on. There were numerous reason why Mickey seemed so adamant about finding Terry. Who Ian hadn't known was missing in the first place. Fathers around their neighborhood were kind of awol always. Ian smoothed out his forehead and thought over how to respond at least twenty times before he finally said, "Go fuck yourself." Which had really came out as Ian had planned, but worked out all the same.

Feathers clearly ruffled, Mickey stared at Ian with wide eyes and a cocked lip. He shook his greasy head and laughed suddenly, which caught Ian off guard for a second time. "Don't tell me you're still on that," Mickey said, smiling half-assed, eyes challenging Ian.

Ian's air caught in his lungs. For someone who had been so sure that he had moved on, Ian was kicking himself for letting Mickey get under his skin. Furious that he was suddenly feeling vulnerable all over again. He really wished that he had just not come over at all. After all, Ian had two months of school left before probably signing up for the Marines this summer. Mickey would be a blimp in his memory. One day Ian hoped to forget what Mickey even looked like entirely. His voice, everything. Mouth agape, Ian stood there staring dumbly, his chest aching with a vengeance. He closed his eyes and turned his cheek, trying to gain control of his thoughts. Shook his head, then looked back at Mickey, all too aware that his eyes were stinging. Hating that fact more than Mickey himself. "You're a fucking asshole," Ian said sternly. "Fucking souless asshole."

Mickey's smile faltered and slowly turned to a scowl. "And you're a fucking pathetic waste of space," Mickey growled, crossing his arms. The change that was in his pockets jingled as he withdrew his hands. Sand drifted down his leg.

Ian's brows went up and he closed his eyes again, trying his damnedest to not let Mickey see him cry. He took in a deep breath. Holding his face with one hand, he shook his head again, opened his eyes and looked at mickey through his fingers, swallowing the ball in his throat. He slowly pulled his hand down him face, feeling wetness there, and bit the inside of his lips.

Watching, Mickey seemed impassive. But for a brief flutter Ian thought he might have saw regret. Likely just his imagination and deep wishing. It had to have been his imagination, because second later, Mickey stalked down the stairs and stepped up to Ian defiantly. He was even shorted now that Ian had grown more. Mickey's forehead barely came to Ian's lips. The ex-con stood there and Ian looked down at him, uncertain of what to expect. Mickey's eyes searched him hard, menacing. And just like that, Mickey smoothed his face some and pushed Ian slightly, whirling back around. Confusing as fuck. Ian hated Mickey. Hated Mickey more than he had hated anyone.

All at once he breathed out when Mickey slammed his front door and disappeared. The dog was barking again. Ian could hear arguing coming from the house beside of Mickey's. But he only heard these things vaguely because his heart was racing, pulse pounding in his head. The wind blew a little and Ian's cheeks felt cold from crying. He stared at the Milkovich door for only a moment more and finally began his slow walk home.

Ian dreamed of building sand castles that night.


	4. What?

Lip was supposed to come by in an hour and walk with Mandy to the community college. It was kind of the least place Mandy wanted to spend her freed up afternoon. Since making up with Lip, all Mandy really wanted to do was fuck him until he forgot about Karen Jackson completely. She could spend hours working on that, and it was only one in the afternoon. School had let out early today because of a kid bringing in a homemade bomb to science class. So Mandy had a good four hours before five o'clock, when the office shut their doors. Probably she could convince Lip to hang back for at least part of that time.

Mandy stared down at the papers in her hand. Ian had bombarded Mandy with a wad of pamphlets on hair school, and after thinking about actually maybe going for two straight days, Mandy figured she would at least go talk to someone. Since her confession and spat with Mickey four days ago, Mandy had been doing a lot of thinking. Serious thinking, especially for someone who was supposed to be merely a fuck-up, going nowhere fast. So she sat back on her bed, thumbing through some of the pamphlets. This one was on financial aid. Mandy wouldn't have been able to pay for classes herself, so Ian had thought ahead with in argument. She read over the first few pages slowly, frowning. She hated feeling like a charity case.

A knock on her bedroom door made Mandy jump. She tossed the papers to her feet and looked up, scowling. "Who the fuck is it?" she barked out, throwing her legs over the edge of her bed. No one in this house fucking knocked.

"You decent?"

Mandy's scowl turned into a state of confusion. "Yeah, Mick," she growled sarcastically.

He threw open her door and stood there against the frame. Mandy was seriously confused, and not just because her brother suddenly had some damned manners, but because Mickey was supposed to be at his new job. She thought back on his nightly excursions and tried to keep her thoughts to herself. Mickey was seriously concerning her lately, but she didn't really want to let him know that. Things were awkward enough since Mickey's release.

"Well, what?" Mandy asked, brow knitted. She had hurried to tuck the pamphlets under her ass so that Mickey wouldn't see them. He would only have picked fun, like the rest of her fuckwit brothers. Told Mandy she was wasting her time. And she already felt like maybe she was, so Mandy certainly didn't want anyone affirming her fears.

Mickey scratched his head and looked around her room. "You busy?" he asked, never once looking directly at her.

Mandy shifted about, feeling the rough paper scratch the back of her thighs. She chewed her bottom lip, staring at her brother. Who was slowly growing into a stranger to her. "Kind of," she said. "What's your damage?"

Mickey shrugged, looking Mandy over.

"Aren't you supposed to be at work?" Mandy asked, making a face full of sarcasm and distaste. That's what the Milkovich siblings did. They were cruel to one another. That's how things worked around this house, and Mandy hoped Mickey hadn't forgotten it, or he was as good as chopped liver.

"Got fired," Mickey said simply, crossing his arms.

Mandy snorted. It figured Mickey had gone and gotten himself fired. Even more reason for Mandy to suspect Mickey was on some kind of drug. "What'd you do?" Mandy asked, hoping maybe to gain some insight on what was going on in her brother's life. He was a ghost around the house lately. Mandy hated spending time mostly alone or stuck playing video games with one of her other two brothers still living here.

"Took one of the cars I was working on for a drive," Mickey began, stepping into Mandy's room and plopping sloppily down in her swivel chair, " and got sideswiped by some dumb shit who ran a red-light."

Lips twisting into a grin, Mandy chuckled. "You going to get a new job?" she asked, kicking her legs about and watching Mickey with growing curiosity.

"Have to," Mickey sighed, twirling around in the chair. He stopped and picked up a pen from Mandy's nightstand. Began chewing on the end of it and twirling again.

Mandy rolled her eyes. Since they were children, Mickey had seen fit to destroy everything his grubby hands touched. Be it tearing things into small pieces and flicking them around the room, playing with every meal their mother had once cooked, or chewing on everything in the house until it had Mickey marks all over it. That's what their mother had once called the teeth marks on everything small laying around the house, like the remote or all of Mandy's broken Barbie piece; Mickey marks. He never had grown out of it. Mandy frowned and reach behind her, grabbing a pillow and chucking it at Mickey.

The pillow bounced off his head, even though Mickey had seen it coming, and landed on top of the dresser, knocking things over. Mickey laughed and threw the pen at Mandy's face. She caught the pen and smirked. "Dick," she commented, throwing the pen back to him. She missed and the pen landed by Mickey's socked feet. She stared at him, a smile playing on her lips because Mickey was still smirking at her while scratching his head. Mandy wouldn't admit it, but she liked Mickey. Tolerated the rest, but liked Mickey. Sometimes. Especially when Mickey let his walls down and joked. She really liked her brother then, because that side of Mickey reminded Mandy of when things were normal. Because their mother had gone off the deep end. Before their father had been released from a ten year prison sentence when Mandy had been barely eleven.

"So isn't that violating your probation?" Mandy asked, thinking back on the conversation. She brought her legs back up on the bed, twisted awkwardly beside of her. It was almost painful, but Mandy wanted to keep the pamphlets hidden. Didn't want to sour whatever moment she and Mickey were having.

"Nah," Mickey said, clearing his throat and leaning back in the chair while he spun once, quickly. He stopped and spit a piece of dead skin across the room. "Would have been, but the guy who hit me was drunk, and my boss vouched that it was a test run to see if I'd fixed the car and shit."

"That was nice of him."

"Yeah, except he fired me right after," Mickey bit, rolling his eyes.

Mandy scrunched up her nose, looking Mickey over. The papers were digging into her ass now, and she really wanted to move. "So," she dragged out, "what did you want?"

Mickey picked up the small, square pillow from Mandy's nightstand, twirling and tossing it around idly. Finally he threw it at her. Mandy hadn't been expecting that, so when the pillow hit her hard in the chest, she fell back slightly. She yelped and hurried to force herself back up. Baring her teeth at Mickey, Mandy slammed her fists against the bed. "Fucking asshole," she snarled. "That hurt!"

Her legs stung but felt a little relieved from the papers that had been stabbing them. Which was great, until the thought occurred to Mandy that Mickey's catching her off guard had caused some of the pamphlets to fall to the floor. She looked up quickly, eyes widened, watching Mickey puzzle down at the papers. Mandy took in a deep breathe when Mickey frowned and eased forward from the chair.

Scooting the chair some, Mickey bent down, still sitting, and picked up a pamphlet. Mandy stared, eyes glued to Mickey's gripping hand like magnets. Watched him frown at the papers, lick the corner of his mouth, and skim the pages. Her stomach ached and Mandy kind of wished she hadn't let Mickey come in her room at all now. Mickey met her gaze, and reached forward, pamphlet extended to Mandy. His face was almost unreadable. Mandy knitted her brow and took the pamphlet.

"Don't let dad see that shit," Mickey said calmly, getting up from the chair.

Mandy let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding. She watched Mickey walk to her door and step into the hallway. He looked back at her for a second, thoughtful. Mandy swallowed hard, tightening her grip on the pamphlet in her hand. The one on financial aid.

Mickey's eyes searched Mandy for a second. He looked away from her face and down at the other papers sticking out around her legs. Popping his knuckles absently, Mickey extended one arm, fist against Mandy's door frame. He stroked the wood with a thumb, staring at his own hand now. Mandy wasn't really sure what to make of the current situation. Reaction. Wasn't sure what to make of Mickey at all. She watched her brother's eyes trail over his hands, and got the strangest feeling like she knew what he might be thinking. Could tell suddenly that he was reading the ink on his knuckles.

"Do it," Mickey said suddenly. His voice was loud in the tense silence, and made Mandy catch her breath a little. With that, Mickey pulled down his arm and shut Mandy's door.

Mandy blinked, staring at the mirror glued on to the back of her door. Stared at herself in the mirror, but wasn't really even seeing her reflection. Finally she looked down at the papers in her hands again. And wondered what the hell had just happened.


	5. Confess

Fast asleep, her head buried against the back of Lip Gallagher's neck, Mandy dreamed soundly. Yet she was a light sleeper. So when she heard the front door open, heard the sound of Terry Milkovich coughing and shutting the door behind him, Mandy shot up in bed. She shook Lip's shoulder until he rolled over, eyes fluttering open. Frantic, Mandy stumbled backward from the bed, completely naked, and tugged a confused Lip from her bed. "You need to leave," Mandy whispered fervently as she pulled him. She pointed to the door while Lip, half delirious, began putting on his shorts on leg at a time. "My dad's finally home," Mandy grumbled. She sighed and picked up the top rumpled up at the foot of her bed. After putting it on, Mandy grabbed her underwear from the nightstand and slipped into that as well.

Lip scratched his bare stomach, looking around for his shirt. "So fucking what?" he yawned.

Mandy pursed her lips and gripped her hips. She rolled her eyes, asking Lip if he wanted to die tonight. And no, he didn't, so Mandy saw Lip out of her bedroom window. She shut the window and rubbed at the gooseflesh on her arms. Stood in the back of her room, staring at the bedroom door, listening.

Terry Milkovich had been gone since the third night Mickey came home. Had left without really saying where he had been heading. Probably to score some smack. Mandy tugged at the bottom of her t-shirt and then trudged back to her bed. She plopped down and sat up straight for a while, grasping her knees. Her room was too quiet now that Lip had gone, so Mandy focused on listening to the noise throughout the house. Mainly her father. He was talking at someone. Mandy knitted her brow and stood back up to tip toe over to her door. She cracked the door slightly and peered out. The house was pitch black, so all Mandy could really see was her father and who she assumed was Mickey, standing beside of the sofa. It had to be Mickey because her other brothers were away doing god only knew what. Her eyes widened and her heart picked up. She stared hard at the outline of her brother, panicked. Mickey had, after all, been determined to kill their father. And apparently he had waited up for their father. Mandy wondered how Mickey had known Terry was coming home. Or perhaps the late night meeting had been a coincidence.

Her grip on the knob tightened when Mickey finally spoke. Terry had merely been mumbling about the water getting cut off tomorrow. Or something. But Mickey had only stood there in silence. Which had scared Mandy. But when Mickey finally spoke to their father's back, as the aging man walked toward the kitchen, Mandy's blood ran cold. It turned out Mandy hadn't known what fear was until that very moment.

"I'm gay."

Mickey's firm voice echoed in Mandy's head. His words fighting to register the wiring in her brain. Stunned herself at this information, Mandy watched her father's back stiffen. Saw Mickey, unflinching, stand there like he hadn't just signed his own death certificate.

Terry turned back around slowly. Although Mandy could only make out the outlines of her father and brother, she knew what her father's face probably displayed. Shock, disbelief, confusion, anger, disgust.

"You care to repeat that?" Terry Milkovich demanded.

Mandy gasped, throwing a hand over her mouth. Her fingers ached because of her too tight grip on the knob. She felt her knees growing weak as Mickey stepped up to their father in defiance.

"I said, I'm gay. But you heard me the first time," Mickey said.

Running out there and getting between this was the worst idea that Mandy had flying through her head. But she readied herself, in case it became necessary.

"No son of mine—''

"No," Mickey barked lowly, "you don't get to judge me. Not now. You lost that right."

He was dangerously close to Terry, and Mandy kind of thought it was brave, but also stupid. Mickey was small. A scrapper, but small. And Terry was crazed, especially when he had been out on one of his excursions. Retard strong. Mandy bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood. She knew suddenly that if her father went after Mickey, she planned on marching in there with the pistol laying on her nightstand. She would pull the trigger. She would.

Terry was quiet, and Mandy figured it was because of the inflection in Mickey's words. The accusing tone. Their father knew what Mickey was getting at.

Mandy held her breath watching the tension grow thicker by the second. And just like that, before Mickey probably had time to blink, Terry drew back his arm and sucker punched Mickey right across his mouth. Kind of like when Mickey had been a kid and mouthed off a lot. Only this time Mickey didn't fall to the floor in tears. He just stumbled back for a second, steadied himself on a nearby lamp, and then stood straight again. Mandy heard Mickey spit. Saw the shadow of his arm run across his face.

"You done?" Mickey asked their father.

There was a few second of quite and stillness, where Mandy thought her heart might give out. She took deep breaths through her mouth. Watched as Mickey made the first move. Her brother shoved past Terry, his shoulder knocking into the man hard. Terry stood there as Mickey stalked away, going straight for his room. Maybe the bathroom, to clean the blood off of his face. Blood Mandy could just picture, given the impact of that punch.

Terry shook, and Mandy opened her door fully now. She stood there, unseen. Her vision bettered so that she could see the details of the living room and her father.

"I want you out of my house!" Terry bellowed at the top of his lungs, staring daggers into his son's shutting door. His face was twisted into a mask of rage and pain.

Mandy looked between her father and Mickey's door. Clenched her hands by her sides as her father turned his face in her direction. She frowned and shook her head at him. She almost opened her mouth to speak, but was beaten to the chase. Both she and Terry shot their eyes in the direction of Mickey's door again as Mickey flung it open. The door crashed against the wall. He stomped out, carrying a single backpack.

Mickey stopped behind the couch, gave Mandy one good glance, then glared at Terry. "Fine," he said calmly. And Mandy wanted to cry as her brother turned toward the door and left in a rush.


	6. These Bruises

Ian nearly tripped in the shower when Lip barged in, nose bleeding and eye already swelling shut. He stared at his older brother from around the shower curtain as Lip cursed loudly, rummaging fast through the medicine cabinet. Stunned and confused, Ian reached to the floor and picked up the towel he had dropped there. He shut off his water and wrapped the white cloth around his lower half securely, all while Lip knocked everything from the cabinet. Items Ian hadn't seen in months, since the cabinet was rarely opened lately. He opened and closed his mouth, fumbling for a way to ask Lip what the hell was going on. His eyes fluttered over his brother. Lip was wearing jean shorts and a tank. Both garments smeared with dirt and a little bit of blood. One of his sleeves was ripped completely in half. Lip was also cradling one arm against his chest at and awkward angle. Ian zeroed in on Lip's limb and quickly noted the unnatural bending near Lip's elbow. "Holy shit!" Ian spat, eyes wide and mouth a gape. "Holy shit! Lip you need to go to the hospital!" he blubbered, arms out frantically by his sides. His brother's arm was clearly broken.

Lip ignored him and finally pulled whatever the hell he had been looking for out of the cabinet.

Hardly believing any of this, Ian blinked a few time at the gun Lip unwrapped from a pink washcloth. "Is that a," Ian trailed, blinked more, and struggled with his racing heart, "pistol?" He hadn't known there was a gun in the house in the first place. The last one, Frank had haucked for quick cash at a local pawn shop. And Fiona had insisted on keeping deadly weapons out of the house since Carl's hawk incident last November. He closed his mouth when he became aware of his state, and reached out and jerked Lip's seemingly okay arm. Ian glared hard at his brother and held his grip on Lip's wrist. "What the hell is going on?" Ian barked. "What happened to you?" he asked, looking Lip up and down quickly.

Eyes wide and crazier than Ian could remember seeing Lip express pretty much ever, Lip jerked free. But he remained in place, wincing and touching his wounded arm with his good hand, the gun also, since he held it tightly. "I need your help killing someone," Lip said, completely serious.

Ian nearly shit his the towel. "What?" he asked dumbly, looking at Lip. His brother was losing it.

"Terry Milkovich beat the hell out of Mandy," Lip said bluntly. Ian's heart skipped a beat as Lip pressed on. Lip's breathing was erratic. "Fucking bastard," Lip growled, turning his attention back to the gun. He opened the barrel and peered inside before slinging it back closed and stuffing the weapon in his pocket with haste.

Ian yelled incoherently, rushing to grab at Lip's pocket. Lip moved away, glaring at him. "Put the safety on if you're going to pocket it!" Ian exclaimed, staring, swallowing hard. Mind racing.

Lip knitted his brow and pulled the gun back out. He flipped on the safety, then placed it back in his pocket. "Better?" he asked Ian, aggravated. He looked past Ian to the door and began pushing forward.

Ian slammed his hands against Lip's chest in an attempt to slow the older boy down. "You can't kill him!" Ian yelled, then threw himself against the door, arms out, trying to block the exit. "You're being irrational!" he exclaimed. But he thought back on the reason Lip had given, and Ian found himself almost stepping aside. Yet he had to talk sense into Lip. Had to be the voice of reason. Because clearly Lip had given up on rationality. Likely somewhere between seeing his girlfriend bruised up and having his arm snapped when he probably went to extract revenge. Ian wasn't sure, but knew he would get the details later. "Just calm down for a minute," Ian said, hoping he sounded calm himself, though sure he didn't. "Tell me what happened. Where's Mandy now?" Ian said quickly, not breathing between words.

Lip bared his teeth and grabbed at the door knob. His breath hissed through his teeth and onto Ian's shoulder as Lip tried to pull open the door while Ian pressed hard back against it. The struggle went on until Lip made the mistake of jerking his wounded arm. Calling out, Lip backed up a step and grabbed his arm. The gun clattered to the floor. Ian's eyes, wide, went from Lip to the gun in a matter of seconds. In one swift motion, Ian swooped down and grabbed the pistol. Groaning, Lip looked at him and appeared to literally bite down on his tongue. Lip reached out out while still cleaving to his arm. He growled, "Give it to me, Ian!"

Ian shook his head, panting because of his adrenaline.

"Hand over the fucking gun!" Lip screamed.

"No, god damn it!" Ian barked, diving out of the way as Lip rushed at him. He struggled to keep a hold on his towel and at the same time, avoid Lip's next attack. But his grip on the cloth slipped, and despite his efforts, Ian ended up dropping the gun and stopping the towel from falling off. Because he was not about to fight his brother naked. Ian had only fought someone naked once, and didn't care to have a repeat of that incident. Didn't really even want to remember it because it had been Mickey he fought. And had happened only days before Frank barged in on them. Before everything Ian knew changed. When Ian had grown a pair of balls and had snagged a kiss from Mickey Milkovich. Who had been stupid enough to fuck Ian face to face more than once, and in Ian's opinion, had been asking for it because of that change in their once sexual relationship. As his thoughts, drifted away from him, Ian found himself losing the struggle with Lip, as they both feel to the floor. Grabbing for the gun and sliding about.

Lip kneed Ian in the gut and grabbed at the weapon. Almost retrieving it, until someone banged harshly on the bathroom door. The brothers froze, staring at one another, Lip's hand a mere inch from the gun.

"I don't know what the hell is going on in there," Fiona called furiously from behind the door, voice muffled, "but whatever it is just woke up Liam, and he's very unhappy!" She obviously punched the door, and it shook. "I have work in less than twenty minutes," Fiona barked. "And one of you two are watching Liam because of this! Understand?"

Ian scowled at Lip, and quickly he shoved at Lip's bad arm and grabbed the gun. Practically jumping from a laying position to his feet, Ian stared warningly at Lip as the older brother scrambled to his feet.

"Open this door!" Fiona continued, jiggling the knob violently. "Right now, you two!"

Glaring back at Ian, Lip shook his head, extending his good hand out for the gun, then jerking his head back toward the opened cabinet and all of the items thrown about in disarray. Ian assumed Lip was getting at hiding the gun from Fiona before opening the door. Both remained silent as Fiona called out at them again. Heart rate slowing down, Ian looked down at the gun in his hands. Knitting his brow as he sighed, Ian looked up at Lip and pursed his mouth. Angry because he had no choice but to hand Lip the gun to place back in the cabinet, Ian tossed over the weapon. Lip barely caught it. After fumbling with it, making minor racket, Lip turned to the cabinet and started putting things back in place. Ian watched the gun, wary. He was extremely relieved when Lip wrapped the pistol back into the pink rag and tucked the thing behind a bunch of random crap. Ian hated that he had given the gun back, and regretted it immediately. Although he was starting to doubt his brother actually going through with murder. Lip didn't have that in him, and Ian knew it. Lip was just irrationally angry. Ian hoped. He watched his brother groan and push his arm against him feebly. Lip leaned back against the sink and stared back at Ian, face washed with pain. Ian wished he didn't have such good loyalty qualities. Else he would have opened the door to Fiona's calls as soon as the gun had fallen into Ian's hands moments prior. He rolled his eyes at himself before going back to watching Lip wrap a hand towel around his busted elbow and secure the towel over his shoulder in a makeshift sling.

"You need to see a doctor," Ian whispered firmly as Fiona banged on the door again.

"Fuck off, Fi!" Lip growled, glaring past Ian to the shaking door.

"Excuse me?" Fiona yelled and stopped wiggling the knob.

Lip huffed. Ian saw the sweat pouring from his brother's face. Noted the way Lip kept clenching his teeth and sucking in sharp breaths. He repeated to Lip that he need to get to a hospital. Fiona could be heard stomping off. The brothers stared at each other for a long while before Ian finally made the first move. Silently, Ian left the bathroom, leaving Lip to stand by the sink, clearly at odds with himself.

Ian went straight downstairs to the laundry room and grabbed his jeans and Ramones t-shirt from the dryer. He dressed quickly, found socks and shoes, then went upstairs to his and the other boys' room to pick a crying Liam up from the crib. Fiona had already stormed out for work because she knew that neither Lip nor Ian would have stuck around to watch Liam otherwise. Ian bounced Liam on his hip, then sat the child to his feet. Immediately, Liam was waddling out of the room and through the hallway, whole hand shoved into his mouth. Scratching the back of his neck as he saw Lip emerge only to have Liam attach himself quickly to Lip's leg, Ian frowned and looked out of his window. Without looking over at his brothers, Ian said, "Liam, get dressed, we have to make sure Lip goes to the hospital."

"I'll be fine to go alone," Lip grumbled, already given in and thought things through. Ian could tell by Lip's level of calm. His hunch was confirmed when he looked over finally and saw Lip pulling his wallet from his pocket, and retrieving the medicaid card from a slide. Looking deep in thought.

Liam, who was almost three years old now and still hadn't spoken much, pointed up at Lip's twisted arm and scrunched up his face. "Hurt!" he said.

Lip snorted and met Ian's stare. "I was going to check in on Mandy, anyway," Lip sighed.

Ian's heart flipped at the mention. "She's hurt that bad?" he asked, then wished he hadn't because Ian didn't want to stir up any thoughts in Lip's head.

Lip's eyes was close to closed up now. His nose had stopped bleeding and his face was covered in dried blood. He frowned. "Her neck's fucked," he said. "She could hardly move it when the ambulance got there."

Eyes wide as scenarios flew through his head, Ian walked over and rushed to dress Liam. He hadn't seen Mandy in nearly a week. He hadn't gone over to her house because he didn't want to run into Mickey again. And Lip hadn't mentioned if anything crazy was going on at the Milkovich house until today. Now Ian couldn't stop wondering why Terry had attacked his daughter. Mickey had mentioned once, when he and Ian first started their weird relationship, that Terry was abusive. Actually, Mickey hadn't phrased his father's behavior quite so. Ian had just summed it up from certain comments Mickey let on to. But from what Ian gathered, Terry only beat on his boys, never Mandy. Had never laid a hand on Mandy. Not to hit her, anyway. Ian's stomach sank every time he thought about what went on behind the Milkovichs' closed doors. He wondered what exactly was going on in that family lately. Felt guilty for blowing Mandy off all because of her brother. Thought maybe he could have done something to stop her getting hurt if Ian had only been around lately.

Lip still hadn't let on to the details when they boarded the El. Ian wished he would. Because Ian was going insane wondering. Poor Mandy. Ian could think only those two words during most of the ride to the hospital. Poor Mandy. And poor Mickey, too. Ian stared out the window to the evening sky whisking by. Stared out and thought for a second time that Mickey and Mandy were the most tragic individuals Ian had ever come into contact with. And that said a lot because Ian's family was fucked up too.


	7. You're Paying

Going to work the next morning sucked. Ian was so exhausted that he could barely think straight. It was a Sunday, and Linda had asked him to pull a double because she was going to be busy all day. Because Kash had come back into town finally. Ian was sleepy because he had slept in a recliner beside of Mandy's hospital bed all night. Lip had stayed as well, but not in Mandy's room. His brother's arm had been broken enough to require surgery. From which Lip would recover fine, the doctors said. So Lip had spent a night in recovery. Ian had, of course, stayed in his brother's room with the rest of his family on and off, until visiting hours were over. Today Lip was coming home. Mandy wouldn't be released until tomorrow.

Ian sighed as he stepped foot into the Kash and Grab. He had entirely too much on his mind. Mandy's sprained neck and slight concussion. Lip's busted up elbow. Terry Milkovich just in general. And when Mandy had been awake periodically, Ian had asked her what was going on at home. For once Mandy had been straight forward. Had told Ian about Mickey's confession, and how his words had sent Terry off the deep end, into a spiral of whiskey and heroin. Ian had insisted that Mandy not return home. She insisted that she honestly had no choice; that Terry was going to come around looking for her regardless.

Linda stood behind the register, face screwed into her usual impatient frown. He greeted her and waved as he strolled to the back room to store his book-bag and slip on an apron. When he walked back out, Linda was already on the move towards the upstairs. She stopped in front of him for a second to apologize for asking him to pull a double shift. Ian could tell that his boss was stressed out because of Kash's return. And if her nerves hadn't been obvious before, the mood was made clear when she told Ian to grab something to eat from the store, on the house. But only the once, and to not take more than was necessary. He thanked Linda, and the took his place behind the counter. Not thirty minutes later, Linda and her children were breezing down the steps and out of the store.

Ian was beyond joyful that the store was nearly dead today. He was too tired to do much but sit on a stool behind the counter, reading magazines and eating a bag of chips. His intentions had been to study up for the test he had coming up tomorrow, but Ian had given up on that. Now his schools books were stuffed back into his book bag in the other room. Eventually, Ian had to piss majorly. Probably from the three energy drinks he sucked down through the last four hours he had been standing around. It was almost nine o'clock at night, and Linda had told Ian to close up early, around ten instead of eleven. So he had only an hours of suffering left before he could run home and crash. But he had to piss like a horse, so Ian darted out from behind the counter and rushed to the bathroom in the back. When he'd finished relieving himself, Ian zipped up on his way out of the bathroom door. Unfortunately, he heard a ding, and jerked his head up, alert.

"Shit," he muttered to himself, hurrying to get in plain sight. He had forgotten to lock the door on his way to the rest room. Because he was so fucking tired, no doubt. Ian hoped no one had stolen anything because Linda would have his head on a stick if she watched the security cameras and saw. She wouldn't care about any excuse Ian might try pulling out of his ass.

When he stepped into view, Ian hurried to the register, noting that whoever had entered was rummaging around in the back isle, out of sight. Ian leaned on the counter, trying to peer around the bags of chips blocking his view. His eyes widened when Mickey Milkovich stood up, food and drinks tucked under his dirty arms. He was wearing the same t-shirt and shorts, now even filthier, that Ian remembered seeing the night Mickey had cut him deep on the front stoop. Had called his pathetic. Ian's chest ached at the memory. He swallowed hard, watching Mickey with a deep frown. Ian crossed his arms as Mickey looked over two different jerky sticks, obviously trying to decide which one he preferred.

Ian fucking hated Mickey in that moment. He stared hard at the older boy's scuffed face. Mickey's cheeks and nose were pink. His hair stood up stiff. Ian knitted his brow, looking Mickey over in detail while he had the chance. Curiously, his eyes followed Mickey to the end of the next isle, where Mickey openly pocketed a tube of sunscreen. What the hell?

"You have to fucking pay for that," Ian bit out, tart, loud. Practically fuming. At the same time his stomach churned.

Mickey froze, his back to Ian. He scratched the back of his pink neck. "Yeah," Mickey dragged, "get fucked, Ian." His tone was angry, but Ina thought Mickey sounded as tired as Ian felt. It was hard to tell now that he couldn't see Mickey's face.

Ian ran a hand through his hair, uncrossing his arms, exasperated. He exhaled long and slow. "You know, Mickey," he began, still watching Mickey pocket another tube of sunscreen, this time with some aloe vera, "there was point when I thought maybe you had the smallest bit of empathy." He paused as Mickey turned around, glaring at him, daring. Still Ian pressed on. Because fuck Mickey Milkovich and all of his bullshit. The redhead leaned on the counter, palms flat, and kept his face hardened. "But it's clear to me now that you're just like Frank. A selfish coward," he said evenly, holding Mickey's gaze. "I can't believe you just left her there, Mickey," Ian went on still, even though Mickey had sat down most of his food and drinks, save for a bag of chips and a bottle of Pepsi. Even though Mickey had taken a few steps forward. "But then," he said, serious, as Mickey stepped behind the counter, "you always have been great at running away and disregarding the well-being of others in favor of yourself." As he finished speaking, Ian stood from the stool and turned to face Mickey, who now stood directly beside of him behind the register.

Mickey sat his chips and drink on the counter, then turned his full attention back at Ian. His face was mostly blank but his eyes were hardened. Ian's chest pounded because while he had lashed out verbally, Ian was suddenly very unprepared for a fight with Mickey. In all honesty, Ian had only been in two fist fights with the boy before him. On had ended in sex and the other had been half-assed on Mickey's part. Like everyone else in their neighborhood, Ian knew how fucking crazy Mickey was when he fought. Because Ian had witnessed a real fight between Mickey and another kid from school, just before Mickey dropped out in the ninth grade. It had been a little terrifying. So as he stood only a few inches from Mickey, reeling in the short boy's body heat, dizzy from the tension, Ian almost wanted to rewind the last five minutes of his life.

Thumbing his bottom lip, Mickey looked Ian over. To Ian, Mickey seemed about to pounce. Instead, Ian watched as Mickey's hard exterior cracked right before his eyes. Mickey sighed and looked down at the counter, his stuff, as if it were offensive. "What are talking about?" Mickey asked, honest.

Ian knitted his brow and bit down hard on the back of his lips to gain composure. He blinked at Mickey, studying his profile. "Mandy," Ian said, voice shaken with confusion now. "You don't know?" he asked, harsh.

Mickey turned quick, his eyes wide with fury. "Clearly not," Mickey spat, his words full of acid, the said, "Why don't you enlighten me."

Trying not to falter, Ian waited a few second, watching Mickey's fists with trepidation, then sat back on the stool. When He decided that Mickey wasn't an immediate physical threat, Ian exhaled loudly and propped his elbows on the counter top, nudging Mickey's items over. He ran his hands through his short red hair and stared off into space. He hated his inner conflict. How weak he felt even though he tried his best not to let his feelings show. His hurt. Confusion. Anger. Care.

"Fucking spit it out already," Mickey growled, shoving Ian's shoulder slightly and withdrawing his hand as if Ian had burned it.

Ian jerked forward because of Mickey's shove. He ignored the action for now and shifted in his seat. Without looking back at Mickey, Ian told his once lover about Terry and Mandy. That Mandy was in the hospital until tomorrow. To Ian's shock, Mickey gasped out a stunned and bitter laugh. Seconds later, money flew out and hit Ian in the face, then dropped to the counter in front of him. Some of the change clattered to the floor. Ian jerked up then, eyes wide and mouth open slightly as he watched Mickey grab his stuff and leave in a rush. Ian stared at the door even after Mickey had gone, had disappeared into the night. Finally, Ian looked down at the wad of damp money. He closed his mouth to swallow and grind his teeth. He tasted sand and some of it crunched between his teeth. Ian frowned down at the money and wiped at his mouth, where the cash had smacked him.


	8. Events of Today

Two hours and thirty minutes. That's how much time had passed since Lip and Ian picked Mandy up from the hospital, and since Mandy had taken to sharing a room with Debbie. Much to Debbie's dismay. And now Ian and Lip were waiting outside of the Milkovich house, sans Mandy, peering over the side of a car and watching for Terry to leave the house. He was the only one home, given that Tony had moved out, Iggy had been arrested outside of the Alibi two nights prior to Mandy's beating, and Mickey was missing. Sort of. Ian thought he might know where Mickey had been hiding. Thought maybe the sunburn and trails of sand were a nice indication. He didn't say anything about his inkling because, even though he almost wished harm on Mickey, he didn't really. And the less people that knew where Mickey was hiding out, the better. If Terry were to find out, he'd likely try to beat the queer out of his son, as Mandy so elegantly put it earlier. Like he had tried to beat Mickey's whereabouts out of Mandy. Mandy who honestly had no idea. Mandy who kept going on about Mickey seeming too serious when he'd stopped by to visit her in the hospital yesterday. Probably after fleeing the Kash and Grab. Too serious about what, Ian wondered but didn't press.

"Once he's out of there," Lip said, eyes stern on the Milkovich front door, "we go in and grab the bare essentials. No more than five minutes." As he finished giving his brief orders, he looked paused, waiting for Ian's response. When Ian didn't speak, Lip looked over his shoulder at Ian and frowned.

Ian rolled his eyes. Figuring that Lip thought he was off in lala land. Which Ian was, but he had also been aware enough to get the gist of what Lip instructed. Not like Lip hadn't been verbally shorting out the plan for an hour now, anyway. "Yeah, yeah," Ian hummed, "I got it. Jesus, Lip."

Lip rolled his eyes as well, then turned his attention to the house again. Terry walked out, shouldering a bag stuffed full of something. Probably guns. The door slammed behind him. Ian and Lip watched him walk away, staring at his back until he was no longer visible. Then the brothers waited another ten minutes because damned if they were fool enough to get caught sneaking in like the last time. Once the coast was seemingly clear, Lip tugged at Ian's sleeve and lead the way into the Milkovich house.

When the door opened, Ian actually coughed. The house was foggy with smoke. As Ian entered after Lip, the smell of what Ian could only describe to himself as burning a musky, damp, thickness nearly suffocated him. He covered his mouth and nose, squinting through the haze at Lip. Lip stood near the kitchen entrance, fanning the air around him and gagging.

"That's fucking awful!" Lip howled in between hacks.

Ian hesitated to walk in further. What he really wanted to do was open the door up and air the place out. Of course he couldn't, being as that would have made their breaking and entering obvious. Though they hadn't had to break anything to get in, really. Yet he walked forward, copying Lip's action as he tried to look into the kitchen. The source of all the smoke and foul odor. Ian's eyes stung as he stepped beside of Lip and peered at the pot sitting on top of the kitchen table. It was smoking.

"What the hell is that?" Ian asked, swallowing hard and holding down his bile.

Lip pulled his shirt over the bottom of his face. He stepped into the kitchen, braver than Ian, who actually took a few steps back. Fast as he could manage, the eldest brother grabbed a towel that was slung over the dirty dishes in the sink, and hurried to dump the contents of the pot.

Ian's eyes bulged, stinging worse now, and he let go of his mouth, throwing his hand out in alert. "What are you doing?" Ian blurted all in one breath. He heard whatever was in the pot gurgle down the sink. "Now he's going to fucking know someone's been in here, Lip!" Ian growled.

Lip sat the pot in the sink and turned on the water. The water splashed over the pile of dishes, but settled the mess. Lip's cast was also splashed. He cursed and walked back over to Ian. Ian glared at him and shoved Lip slightly. Lip scowled and shoved back with his one good arm.

"Fuck Terry Milkovich," Lip hissed. "I don't give a good god damn if he knows I've been in this house. In fact, I'm leaving him a nasty letter."

Ian rolled his eyes at Lip's melodrama. He covered his mouth again, then said, words muffled, "Let's just stick to your plan, please!"

Not ten minutes later, Lip and Ian had stuffed three plastic bags full of Mandy's clothing, makeup, perfumes, and whatever else Lip seemed to think she would want. Ian had ended up thee one to hurry the duo along, despite all of Lip's preaching. Free of the house, smoke, and odor, Ian and Lip sat under the El on a tattered sofa, catching their breath and trying to rid themselves of the dizziness that the smell had given them. Finally they trudged the short distance from the hell house to their own home. Lip immediately went to give Mandy her things. Ian ran to the bathroom to take a shower. When he was done showering, Ian dried off and threw on a new outfit. One that didn't feel quite so contaminated.

The Milkovich house had always had a strange odor to it. But never in the years that Ian had been going over there had he been so taken aback by the condition of the house, the smell. Mickey had told him once that the smell was his father's cooked heroin. He had told Ian this after Ian had so casually mentioned that his own house had smelled of meth because of his grandmother and Carl's makeshift lab. That hadn't been that long ago, really, Ian mused as he plopped down on the sofa and rested. Yet it seemed like an eternity.

So as he sat there, remembering things he would rather not, Ian figured that Lip had dumped out a shit ton of heroin into Terry's sink. Why the man had cooked so much at once, Ian had no idea. But then, Ian didn't know a lot about heroin. Or Terry Milkovich. Only what Mickey had told him. Which hadn't been a lot. Just that Terry had been hooked on the stuff since Mickey was barely six years old. Just that it stank and made his father crazier than normal. And that Mickey had tried it once when his father had been on what Terry liked to call a  _vacation_. Mickey had been eleven when he tried it and had almost died. Ian only vaguely remembered being nine years old and not having his lunch money stolen for almost two weeks. Remembered hearing his mother gossiping about Terry Milkovich poisoning his youngest son, one night at the dinner table. She'd been a little in correct, Ian now knew. After Mickey had confessed such a thing, Ian decided that Frank wasn't the worst pot of luck that the Gallagher's could have had. Of course, he hadn't said that to Mickey at the time and probably never would. If he ever even talked to Mickey again. If.

Staring off into space, Ian felt himself frowning and licked his lips to stop himself. He sighed. Tried to sigh away the sadness in his stomach. The bitter reality of his life. And poor decisions. Ian fucking hated that Mickey Milkovich had gotten so deep into Ian's thoughts and sympathies. Because Mickey was a douche bag who had used Ian for sex and nothing more. Ian should have stopped caring soon after the breakup. But it was thinking about certain conversations. Thinking about certain expressions, certain phrases, certain half-assed grins. Thinking about the sex, for sure. That really needed to stop. Because thinking about all of that made Ian second guess Mickey's snide breakup and even the after math. Even how Mickey acted now. Made Ian wonder. Which was bad because that was wishful and he fucking knew it.

The front door opened, and Ian started up, thoughts going clear as he watched Steve walk into the living room, dangling a set of keys and holding a finger over his lips.

Ian smirked and cocked a brow. He uncrossed his arms from the pillow squished against his chest, and sat his feet down on the floor. Briefly he looked at the pillow as he sat it aside. Ian hadn't known he was cradling it. He looked up at Steve again. The man was now peering up the stairs.

"Fiona's still not home?" Steve asked, hopeful.

Ian knitted his brow, still grinning. "No," he dragged. "What's with the keys? I don't get it."

Steve crooked his finger and walked back outside. Ian got up and followed. The pillow fell to the floor from its place beside him. He stepped outside and closed the front door behind him. His eyes followed Steve to the vehicle parked in front of the house. It wasn't Steve's usual car. Instead it was a golden SUV. A fucking nice one. Stunned, Ian looked over the car, then back to Steve. Steve turned around and raised his arms, silently asking Ian for his thoughts.

"She's not going to keep it," Ian laughed, smiling. "But it is nice."

"Oh she'll keep it," Steve said, wagging his finger, then pushing the unlock button on the keys. The SUV clicked a few times and the back doors slid open. "It'll just sit here until she finally drives it.

"Unless someone steals all the parts," Ian said, now walking towards the car. "And then no one drive it," he joked. He nodded, looking inside. He climbed in. The new car smell was pleasant. Sitting down in the back seat, Ian figured that Steve had picked out a really comfortable ride. Fiona had been going on for months about wanting to save up for a large vehicle to wheel around everyone when need be.

Steve hopped in the front seat and shut the door. Ian knitted his brow as the back doors slid shut when Steve started the car. "Where are we going exactly?" Ian asked, already buckling his seat belt. He hadn't meant to leave the house again that evening.

"To fill it up," Steve said, grinning at Ian through the rear-view mirror. "I think convincing Fiona might be easier if she takes it for a drive. But it came low on fuel."

Ian chuckled. "You did pay for this one, right?" he asked.

There was a paused, then Steve began driving and nodded, giving a very unconvincing yes. Ian figured it wouldn't matter if Steve had stole or paid for the car in full anyway. Fiona was never going to keep such a lavish gift. Steve never learned.

The nearest fueling station was a pretty fair distance from the house, and by the time Steve and Ian arrived, Steve received an apparently important phone call. He handed Ian his wallet and told the redhead to go put at least fifty bucks worth in the car. And to grab some soda because they were out. Ian walked in to do as he was asked. The door dinged as he entered. He looked around and noted how busy the gas station was. The woman behind the counter seemed frazzled. He felt sorry for her because Ian had days like this at the Kash and Grab, so he knew the stranger's pain. He walked to the back aisle and began his search for what soda he figured everyone would settle for, and thought he would take his time. Steve was on the phone, anyway, and wouldn't mind. And Ian thought it might allow for some of the other customers to thin out. He didn't want to add to the woman's obvious frustration. The bell above the door dinged again as Ian hunched down and picked up a container of Coke. The ding only barely registered because it wasn't distinctive from the other ones. People came and went. Finally Ian put down the Coke and grabbed a Pepsi instead. He turned around and looked toward the counter. His brow knitted as he narrowed his eyes in on the back of the first man in a line of three other waiting people. The person was short, stocky, and the back of his neck was peeling from an obvious sunburn. His hair was jet back and messily spiked all over his head. His black vest was unzipped to reveal a filthy, once white t-shirt. The bottom of his short's legs were damp. His sneakers were caked in wet sand. Ian watched as Mickey Milkovich paid for a box of matches and most likely the large red container of gasoline he gripped on one hand. Sighing, the cashier took Mickey's money, hardly looking his way, just as she did the next person in line. Mickey turned toward the door and Ian quickly ducked out of sight. His heart pounded in his chest, and Ian knew that was ridiculous. With the Pepsi bottle gripped against him, Ian slowly stood and watched Mickey's retreating figure through one of the tall windows. His eyes swayed as the container of gasoline swished about while Mickey crossed the street, not bothering to look both ways.


	9. Toss

"Ian!" Fiona growled, smacking him on the back of the head. "Just come pick me up and walk me home after work! I'm not even asking a lot!" Laughing as she tried to swat him again, Ian shielded himself with his arms and tossed himself over on the sofa. Unfortunately, this put him laying across Mandy on his back. Fiona began laughing as well. She leaned over the back of the sofa and flicked Ian's forehead. "So?" Fiona pressed, standing up straight again and crossing her arms.

Ian's laughter slowly tapered off and Mandy shoved him somewhat off of her, snorting. He leaned his head back on Mandy's leg and looked up at his sister's serious face. Grinning ear to ear, Ian shook his head. The actions caused his hair to gain static against Mandy's skirt. "You seriously think this old guy's stalking you?" Ian asked. He forced himself up again and sat on his knees, turning to face Fiona, still on the sofa. "Why don't you ask Steve to pick you up?"

From the corner of his eyes, Ian saw Mandy drape her arm over the sofa and stare at Fiona, Carl's Nintendo 3ds forgotten in her lap.

Fiona rolled her eyes. "Because I don't need his help. Just like I didn't need his van! I can take care of myself," she said, uncrossing her arms and pointing at her chest, lips pursed and face set in stone.

Ian cocked a brow, his grin not wavering.

"Uh huh," Mandy began dragging out, snapping her gum, "you can take care of yourself, yet you're asking for Ian's help?"

Huffing, Fiona threw up her arms, the straightened out her waitress outfit and apron. "Just forget it!" she steamed.

Mandy cackled as Fiona stormed over to the door. Ian stifled his own laughter and leaped from the sofa. He walked over to the door as Fiona began leaving. Ian caught the door when Fiona tried to slam it in his face. His sister stared at him, breathing hard and fast through flared nostrils. Her hair was in disarray and she hadn't bothered putting on makeup, which told Ian that Fiona was actually bothered by whatever was going on at her current part-time job flipping pancakes at a Waffle House. He may joke with Fiona about being paranoid, but if some creep really was tormenting his, basically, mother figure, Ian would take care of it. He sighed and released his hold on the door as Fiona smoothed out her features. "What time?" Ian asked, giving Fiona a reassuring smile.

"Right at midnight," Fiona said. She reached out and patted Ian's chest. "Thanks," she finished, then turned and was on her way.

With six hours to kill, Ian went back to studying while Mandy painted her nails. During that time, the friends packed away an entire bag of Doritos and a two liter of orange soda. Eventually Lip came home from doing whatever it was he did at the college campus even on his days off school. This meant Mandy disappeared upstairs along with Lip. Which meant Ian basically had no rights to his own bedroom. And unfortunately for Ian, because no one was home, Lip and Mandy saw no reason to be quiet. Even though Ian  _was_  home. Apparently his presence didn't matter. Groaning in aggravation, Ian slammed closed his books and sat aside his highlighter. He scrubbed a hand through his hair and exhaled slowly, puffing out his cheeks. Dropping his hand back into his lap, Ian stared at the clock on the wall. Still a good forty minutes to go before he had to meet Fiona at the waffle house. But Ian figured that if Mandy and Lip were going to continue the racket, Ian was either going to kill himself or go for a walk. He opted for the later since he need to go out anyway. Even though the walk to the Waffle House was only about ten or fifteen minutes at the most.

Shoving up from his spot, Ian walked over to the edge of the stairs and dug out his sneakers. He left the house, grateful for the cool night and sudden silence. Well, it wasn't really quiet outside. A group of homeless men were having a heated argument near the pool and the neighborhood was somewhat noisy just in general. But at least Ian wasn't hearing his brother and best friend having sex. Anything was better than that. He stood still at the edge of the sidewalk for a while, just looking up the street. Peering past a few street lights, Ian spotted Mandy's house in the distance. He wrinkled his nose as memories of that early brought back the familiar smell of Mandy's house. He almost coughed again from memory alone. Ian torn his eyes away and braved a look up at his bedroom window. Ian hoped Mandy would be okay staying with them. In all honesty, Ian knew that whenever Terry got back from wherever he had been doing since Mandy's beating, the lunatic would come looking for his daughter. And Lip. Probably would try and finish Lip off. Fiona had mentioned getting a restraining order, but even Tony the cop had told Fiona Terry Milkovich didn't give a rat's ass about restraining orders. The man had been arrested for breaking far more than those flimsy defenses. So it was worrying. So much so that Ian went around his elbow to get to his ass, walking in the opposite direction of the Milkovich house. The Waffle House was quicker to get to by walking by that house, but Ian figured he had time to kill anyway. A great excuse for going out of his way.

He stared ahead as he strolled, hands deep in the pockets of his jeans. The cool night air gave Ian goosebumps, but he didn't mind. Before long, he zoned out. He tended to do that a lot lately. By the time Ian came to senses, he was standing near the edge of the street, overlooking Lake Michigan and the expanse of the darkened shoreline. Ian chewed his bottom lip as he scanned the sands from his distance. He walked closer, knowing full well why he had come in this direction. Sparing a quick glance at his watch before going back to searching, Ian thought making it to the Waffle House in time was still in the cards if he didn't dally. Of course, he ended up disregarding his own thought process and took his first step into the sands of the Chicago shoreline. The beach, as the locals like to call it. Except it was just a lake. But sometimes Ian liked to pretend. He'd actually never seen the ocean.

Ian stopped and stood extremely still as his eyes zeroed in on just the person he had been expecting to find here. Though he wasn't really sure why he'd come all of this way. Why he'd needed to see Mickey. Just to see him.

Mickey was always an enigma. Even more so since his release from juvie. Especially more so, given that Ian had hardly even seen the guy more than a handful of times and yet still Mickey captivated Ian in both good and bad ways. Mickey shouldn't have captivated him. Ian shouldn't have felt a need in himself. Should have only felt betrayal and shouldn't have wanted anything to do with Mickey Milkovich. Except that Ian did want something to do with the douche bag. Even if only to try and figure out what the hell was going on with Mickey lately. It was a strange thing, fucking someone more than once. Even after breaking up and being separated for a year's length, losing all sense of curiosity and caring was out of the question. That person became a part of the other party, somehow. Ian was a perfect example of such because Mickey was still what he thought about a good portion of the time. Even though he  _did_  feel betrayed and even if he  _did_  wish he didn't want anything to do with Mickey. Wished. But wishing was like praying. It did Ian no good. And in that sense, Ian supposed he finally understood why Lip still went around behind Mandy's back to fuck Karen Jackson.

Mickey Milkovich stood at the edge of the water, throwing rocks out into the depths. Behind Mickey was a rolled out sleeping bag and his book-bag. And beside of those things was the container of gasoline and the box of matches Ian had seen Mickey purchase around five o'clock earlier than evening. Ian stared at the red container. He wondered what Mickey had planned. Maybe the gasoline was used to light a fire or something. Since apparently Mickey was on a camping trip all by his lonesome. Hiding in plain sight was obviously Mickey's choice when it came to the aftermath of his coming out. Then again, Mickey had always claimed to hate large bodies of water, sand, and the sunlight. So maybe Terry really wouldn't think to look along the shoreline. Ian honestly wouldn't have thought about it, since apparently the thought hadn't even crossed Mandy's mind. Except that Ian was pretty perceptive when it came to Mickey Milkovich and the small details.

Ian wasn't really sure how long he stood there looking at Mickey, unaware and only a few feet away. Just like he wasn't sure why he turned around and walked away before saying anything to Mickey to gain the jerk's attention. One thing Ian was sure of, though, as he walked the distance to the Waffle House and barely made it in time, was that something inside of Mickey had cracked. And that crack was spreading rapidly.


	10. Cool Off

Debbie was an early riser. Usually Mandy hated the fact. Today she was more than a little grateful.

Mandy tossed about in the bed after Debbie practically flew from it. They had shared the one bed during Mandy's first night staying at the Gallaghers' home and would probably be doing so until Mandy left. Honestly Mandy would rather share Lip's bed, but doing that was out of the question because of Ian and Carl. And some Mexican bitch was sleeping in Frank's old room. So Mandy lolled on the bed, groaning at being woken up. She tugged her hair as she stretched, and yawned loudly. Blinking a few times at the sunlight beaming in through the cracked window, Mandy finally sat up. Her hair was a mess and she had drool caked to the side of her chin. She wiped at it, staring at herself in Debbie's mirror.

At some point during the night, Mandy had kicked the blankets to the floor, save for the single sheet. Which was typical. After all, it was summer, and far too hot for thick comforters. Debbie had gotten annoyed and shivered all night. Mandy didn't understand it.

Scratching her hip, Mandy shifted her legs over the side of Debbie's full-sized bed and sat there for a second with her hands on her knees, listening to the sudden commotion going on downstairs. She hated waking up because she was always very disoriented. Staring at the floor, Mandy figured she should locate her pants in case someone came storming in. What with the sounds coming from downstairs, Mandy wondered if that was a possibility. She sighed heavily and shoved up to her feet. The tan t-shirt she wore felt awkward on her skin because of it's material. She tugged at it, her hand bunching up the red ship design plastered to the front of it. The shirt wasn't hers. All of her clothing had been thrown in the wash late last night. Because apparently her house had reeked more so than usual. Fiona had insisted on washing the clothes the minute she walked in the door and smelled them. So Mandy was wearing one of Carl's shirts to sleep in. It had been the closest to her size, and Mandy really loathed wearing anything entirely too large on her. One reason she disliked wearing Mickey's clothes when she had no other choice. Mickey always bought his shirts too big for even him. In her opinion. But then, her brother had never known how to dress himself properly. None of them had. Except Mandy. Her clothes were usually very clean and well fitted.

She paused slipping on her skirt as her thoughts drifted to Mickey. He was still missing. Terry obviously hadn't located him, though. Or at least he hadn't before Mandy was admitted to the hospital. That had of course been the reason for her father's brash anger. Where the fuck was his faggot son? And why hadn't Mandy told him so that he could straighten Mickey out? Mandy had told Terry she swore she never knew. Terry had been too livid to really listen to much. Mandy still kind of had a headache even four days later. She guessed getting a slight concussion would do that to a person. Her bruises were finally starting to lighten, though. She looked down at her arms, then finished pulling up her skirt. Once done, Mandy walked over to the dresser mirror and tugged at the neck of the t-shirt. Staring at the hand prints around her collar, Mandy swallowed hard. She knew now why Mickey used to wear a lot of scarves.

There for a while, Mickey and his father had been at each others throats, quite literally, over random phone calls from Lisa Milkovich, the mother. The last one received, Terry had hung up the phone after Mickey had insisted on speaking to Lisa. Then, when Terry told Mickey to suck it up, Mickey had made the awful mistake of telling his father to go to hell. That had been right around the time Ian's mother was in town the first time. So back then, Mandy had thought mothers were kind of useless. In one way or another, they hurt their children. Oddly enough, Mickey had gone and gotten himself both shot and arrested that same day. Probably retaliation against his father's verbal and physical abuse, Mandy assumed.

Mandy brushed out her hair with Debbie's comb, tuning out the ruckus downstairs still. For now. She paused, knitting her brow. Thinking back on the events leading up to Mickey's first arrest, Mandy recalled the immediate aftermath of Mickey and Terry's brief battle. Mickey had gone to grab a cigarette while Terry continued screaming at him. Terry had bored of slapping Mickey around by then. And a knock at the door had sent Terry over the edge in shouting. Her father always hated getting interrupted. Of course, her other brother, Iggy, had been in on the fiasco, stirring Terry on further. Funny enough, Mickey had been the one to end that fight by simply leaving. Kind of like the other night, Mandy thought. Just getting his shit and leaving. Mandy envied her brother in that respect. At least he knew when to bounce. Even now Mandy was having a difficult time with separation anxiety. If she told anyone about that, Mandy knew whoever she confessed to would tell her she was insane. Terry Milkovich was a piece of shit. But he was her father. And for whatever reason, Mandy didn't know because she wasn't a psychologist, she had bad separation anxiety. Especially when it came to her father. She hated him. But even still. And that anxiety made her clingy. Which she also hated but didn't know how to stop.

Slamming the brush down on the dresser, Mandy shook herself and rummaged around the items for her lost packet of cigarettes. Once she found it, Mandy grabbed at the last one and lit up. She sucked down half of it before leaving the room to venture to the chaos going on downstairs. By the time Mandy stepped into the hallway, it became clear to her exactly what was going on down there. Mainly because she heard banging on the front door, the front door slammed open, heard Debbie screaming, and heard Lip and Ian yelling at whoever the intruder was. It was her father.

"Carl," Fiona was barking, "Call the police, right now!"

"Put down that fucking phone you god damned little shit stained bastard!" Terry growled.

Mandy's eyes were wide as she stood frozen in the hallway. She wanted to run back into Debbie's room and burying herself. But she also wanted to grab the nearest blunt object and run downstairs brandishing it to her father's neck.

"Don't speak to him like that!" Debbie yelled, but Mandy heard the girl's startled tears and distress.

"Carl!" Fiona insisted.

And Mandy her a thump, a crash, a scream, a cry, more yelling. All of it blurred together. And finally her feet took off. By the time she descended the stairs to the living room, Mandy was eerily calm. A trait only Milkovichs probably possessed; freak out, grown exceptionally calm, then lie through their teeth to the point of no return. Mandy figured Mickey and her father were best at that. She would never tell Mickey that because her brother hated being compared to Terry.

She stood at the foot of the stairs now, watching as her father batted Ian against the broken in door until Ian fell onto his ass outside. She could see a few bystanders on the street watching the display through the doorway. Fiona was grabbing the telephone from Carl while Lip came at Terry from behind, knocking the middle aged man in the head with his cast. Which must have hurt because Lip called out right after and winced. Just long enough for Terry to whirl around and clock him in the chin.

"Dad!" Mandy bellowed firmly. Her voice halted the commotion. She noted that Carl had helped Ian to his feet, then disappeared outside.

Terry's eyes widened. He looked completely high off his ass. But terrifying all the same. He stomped in her direction, stopped in front of her and bared his teeth, pointing heatedly, finger a centimeter from Mandy's nose. "Home," Terry said, voice low and threatening, "right now, Mandy. You and I need to—''

"She's not going anywhere with you!" Ian declared, wiping blood from his flowing mouth. Lip stepped up beside of Ian and Fiona glared on from the kitchen doorway, apparently on hold with the police station. However the fuck that was even possible, Mandy couldn't fathom.

Terry whirled around, slack jawed and furious. Ian was close enough to shove, and Terry did just that. And so ensued yet another fist fight. And cast fight. Mandy continued yelling, this time going on ignored. And suddenly there was water. Cold, forceful water. Spraying everywhere, but mainly on Terry. The water put out what was left of Mandy's cigarette. She yelped and jumped to the side, out of the way, already partly drenched. Terry sputtered, slapping at the water as he too escaped it, falling toward the door, where Carl stood, hosing down the fight. Immediately, Carl dropped the hose and made a run for it. Fiona made a mad dash for Terry. Both Lip and Ian grew alarmed. Lip was the first to reach Fiona and grab her with his good arm around the waist. Ian darted out after Terry and Carl down the street. Panicking, Mandy ran after the trio. She made it as far at the bottom step before she realized the cop next door had a gun in her father's face, Carl standing off to the side near Ian, catching his breath and laughing at the same time. Ian just looked relieved.

"Terry," Tony Markovich said, stern, gun not wavering. He was in uniform and had probably been on his way to work when he heard the commotion. "Terry, we don't want this to get ugly. Just calm down and go home," Tony instructed. Mandy could see fear in his eyes. Everyone knew just how nuts her father was. No question. Half of the time, even the police were trepidacious about arresting him, for fear of his connections. And the proof was standing right before her eyes.

Terry scrunched up his face and took a step closer to Tony. Tony didn't move, but even from her distance, Mandy could see the slight shake of Tony's grip. He appeared determined, though. Of course, so did Mandy's father. Terry closed the distance between himself and the gun. Scowling, he quickly smacked it out of his face and spat on the ground beside of him. "What's the matter? You pee your pants?" Terry said, teeth bared but voice level. "Go on, fucker! Shoot my ass. See where that lands you." He laughed then, his face smoothing out some, and thrust his upper body toward Tony in a mock attack. He licked his teeth and shook his head. "Come one, Markovich," he taunted, not once raising his voice, which somehow made his words more threatening, "do your damned job, worker bee!"

Tony sighed and rolled his eyes. He looked over at Ian and Carl, who were already walking towards their house. They stepped up beside Mandy and Ian looked at her, worried. Fiona was grabbing at Carl, hugging him close from behind Mandy and Ian. Mandy gritted her teeth, popped her jaw. It stung, but she ignored it. Taking in a deep breath, Mandy raised her voice to her father. He turned to look at Mandy, standing firmly in place, fists by her sides to ground herself. "Go home, dad," Mandy said, furious and stern. "Just fucking go home. Now, please!"

Terry looked her over, then glanced back at Tony, gun raised again. He rolled his eyes and shoved past Tony. Only looking over his should once at Mandy. Mandy's stomach sank because of her nerves. She swallowed hard and looked down at Carl, who looked more than a little proud of himself. Mandy punched him lightly in the shoulder, faking a grin. "Thanks, kid," she said.

Mandy was quite for the rest of the morning. Kevin came over and helped Ian and Lip fix the front door back to the hinges. Patched up the hole Terry's foot had left behind with a piece of cork board. Fiona said that would have to work for now, until the family could afford a new door. Mandy thought it was pretty fucking stupid that Fiona didn't just let her rich boyfriend buy one.

By the time the Mexican bitch woke up and came downstairs, it was seven o'clock in the evening and Mandy was sitting by the front window, smoking a cigarette and looking out at two crackheads having it out in the front lawn. Lip had gone to work with Kevin in the ice-cream truck and Ian had taken off for work a few hours prior. She sucked down the smoke slowly, savoring it. The woman, Estefania, Mandy remembered her name, was arguing over the phone with someone in Spanish while Fiona was upstairs giving Liam a bath. Debbie and Carl were outside in the pool. Which left Mandy here alone, growing more impatient with Estefania by the second. Biting her tongue, Mandy peered outside at the crackhead wars, half-assed watching now. When something else caught her eye. Rounding the corner, with what was probably his book-bag in one hand being hidden by his draped over jacket, came Mickey. As he grew closer, Mandy's heart raced. Her brother looked sullen, but determined. Terrified at what this could mean, Mandy jumped up from her spot on the windowsill and pressed her nose hard against the glass. She watched Mickey walk by the Gallagher house, headed toward home.

"Fuck," Mandy hissed under her breath.

Mickey was nuts if he planned on trying to move back home. With one look over her shoulder at the staircase, then to the bitch, Mandy made up her mind. She glanced back out the window and saw that Mickey had already disappeared from sight. Hurrying, Mandy went on a search for her shoes in Debbie's room, trying to be quite and not give herself away to Fiona in the bathroom. Once fully dressed, Mandy tiptoed down the steps. She looked over her shoulder again when she heard Fiona draining the tub. Then ran through the door as if her ass caught fire.


	11. Everything

Linda had let Ian off work early because Kash was coming in. Ian was really glad because he had no desire to see that fucker's face. It was twenty minutes until eight o'clock, when Mandy's favorite television show came on. For once, Ian figured he would watch it with her and not poke fun when she got entirely to involved in the story. He grinned to himself, thinking about Mandy's quick obsessions over ridiculous television programs. When he stepped into his living room, Ian spotted Lip coming in through the back door. Lip looked up at Ian and smirked.

"Linda fire you finally?" Lip teased, meeting Ian in front of the living room stair case.

Ian snorted. "Why are you getting home so  _late_ , is the better question," the redhead pointed out.

Shrugging, Lip started trotting up the stairs. Ian kind of figured he might know where Lip had been. He could practically smell Karen all over him. Craning his neck up the stairs, Ian knew Mandy would catch wind of that smell immediately. But when he heard the shower kick on, Ian sighed. Lip was going to get away with cheating yet again. Just because Ian now thought he might understand why Lip still went around with Karen didn't mean that he agreed with it. The girl was a total bitch. Mandy could be kind of a bitch too, but at least she was a decent person. So far as Ian was concerned, anyway. Others would probably say none of the Milkovichs were decent people.

He sighed and took off his t-shirt, then tugged down the tank top he was wearing underneath. The house was burning up. Probably why no one else was home. They were more than likely down at the Alibi. Where Kevin had installed the coldest air conditioning unit this side of Chicago. Ian guessed the fans had shit out in the house again. Sweat already forming on his brow, Ian made his way to the freezer to stick his head in. He did just that. Then drank down a full glass of water. Then rubbed ice over his neck. Finally somewhat cooled down, Ian cracked open the back door, hoping to let some cool night air in. Lip's water cut off. As Ian stood there, relishing in the breeze, Lip came barreling down the stairs. Ian turned around, furrowed his brow. Lip's eyes were wide and he was only wearing a pair of boxers.

"Where's Mandy?" Lip blurted, screamed almost.

Ian shook his head, confused and suddenly afraid even though he had no idea what was even going on.

"Fuck!" Lip bellowed, shaking his head in panic, water flying about. "Fuck! Her house is on fire! I can see it from the upstairs window!"

A chill hit Ian's spine full force. In seconds, the brothers were running outside, Lip leading the way. Ian froze in the middle of the street. His lungs empty, like he'd been kicked. He looked up at the smoke clouding the sky in a thick stream. The flames licking the Milkovich house were wild. Plenty of neighbors were crowding the streets, trying to get a closer look. Sirens. Ear splitting. Two fire trucks, an ambulance, and two police cars formed a convoy, approaching the Milkovich house fast from the opposite end of the street.

Lip turned back to Ian, glaring. "Come on! Move it!" Lip bellowed. "Ian!" When Ian didn't move, just kept staring, unable to tear his eyes away from the burning house, Lip came back to him and pulled him by the arm.

Ian stumbled along after him, eyes still on the fire. He only pulled his eyes away when Lip broke through the crowd and a police office threw his hand out against Lip's chest, halting the brothers.

"I can't let you through," the officer said, pointing behind the brothers. "Turn around and go stand behind the line, please, boys."

Lip bared his teeth, frantic. "My fucking girlfriend lives there!" he screamed in the officer's face. Ian tugged on Lip's wrist before the conversation escalated.

The officer apologized, but stood his ground. And then Ian lost his grip on Lip's wrist. Lip jerked free and dived past the officer, where he stood in a clusters of red and blue lights cast on the street. Ian went after him, also jerking free of the officer's sudden grip on the back of Ian's collar. Once through, it was clear that the crown of paramedics, firemen, and officers had no more interest in either Ian or Lip. Probably the women and men were far more interested in keeping others back and putting out the fire. In the distance, as he watched Lip spot Mandy sitting on the sidewalk, a blanket over her shoulders, Ian heard a few voices shouting out praise that the Milkovich house was going to hell. He ignored this in favor of marching over to a crying Mandy. Lip was already by Mandy's side, squatting down and gripping her mascara stained face. Or maybe it was soot. Ian thought it looked kind of like both makeup and soot. He approached, breathing fast and crazed. "Are you okay?" Ian asked, heart racing, hands shaking slightly. "What happened?"

Mandy growled, glaring at her burning house. "Someone burned my fucking house down!" Mandy screamed. "And My dad and Mickey are in there!"

Lip wrapped his arms around her, cast and all, face drawn as he stared up at Ian with wide eyes.

Ian's stomach sank. He flung his eyes in the direction of the men hosing down the home. It was useless. Clearly. There was so much fire. So much. Heart beating in his ears, Ian placed a hand on his sickened chest and looked the flames over again and again.

"You said Mickey's in there too?" Lip asked, holding Mandy's face and looking into her watery eyes. She nodded, lips pursed. Lip turned his attention to Ian.

Ian glanced back down at his brother, aware that his eyes were tearing up. Quickly Ian looked back at the house. Mandy claimed someone had burned the house down. She seemed to think it was an outside source. But Ian thought he might know just who was the guilty party. Except Mickey wasn't suicidal. And even though Ian didn't have all of the pieces for this puzzle, he decided at once that Mandy had to be wrong. Mickey was not in that fire. Images of Mickey at the fuel station flashed through Ian's mind. Images of the red gas can. Images of matches and rocks and the lake. Images of Mickey's hard exterior crumbling like the sand caked to his legs. His guts churned and he looked back at Lip and Mandy only briefly before he took off running. Mandy frowned as Lip jumped to his feet, calling after Ian. Without looking back or stopping, Ian ran. His feet pounded the pavement. Pounded until each spring caused sharp pains in his arches. Ran until his lungs burned. Until the tears on his face dried up and he was left with a red nose and stained face. Until he reached the shoreline. Ian ran through the sand. It invaded his shoes, scratched against his feet through his socks. He stopped near the water, spinning around, frantic. Looking in every direction.

"Mickey!" Ian bellowed. He knew he probably looked crazed. It was a little windy tonight, so his voice carried away from him. He spun more, eyes searching the darkness. Ian knew he could possibly be wrong. So many different scenarios ran through his mind. Ian pulled at his short hair, breathing erratic. And his breath caught in his lungs.

Mickey Milkovich was jogging toward the shoreline from behind a cluster of parked activity buses. He looked like he had been running non-stop. And probably he had. Ian darted toward Mickey. Mickey, who hadn't seen Ian and was running in another direction, his back to Ian. He called out finally, as Mickey rounded a corner, under a pier, headed toward what looked like a barrel of burning brush and his sleeping bag and other things. But no gas container. No matches. Mickey halted, startled, and turned around, eyes wide, mouth agape, breathing hard. His chest racked and he bent over to grip his knees.

"Ian?" Mickey asked, confused, out of breath. His voice was not only airy, but shaken. In fact, Mickey was shaking. Yet still he frowned, brow knitted.

Ian stared at Mickey, unsure where to go from here. Panic had cause him to more than likely make a fool of himself. His heart rate slowed only a little. Mickey stood straight, coughed a few times into his fist, his own blue eyes glued to Ian. Ian spotted the blood and bruising on Mickey's knuckles. His eyes followed the guilty hand as Mickey dropped it. It took a minute for Ian to gather himself. When he had, Ian looked Mickey over. Took in the bruise across Mickey's left cheek. The cut on the side of his neck that looked deliberate and extremely precise, albeit unfinished. Saw how distressed Mickey's white top was beneath the unzipped black vest; how smeared with blood that the shirt was.

The wind blew while the two stood there looking at one another. It blew, and Ian caught a whiff of Mickey. Who smelled strongly of gasoline. Ian figured he needed no more proof to confirm his suspicions. He took in a deep breath, holding Mickey's intense yet shrouded look of terror.

"Do you ever get sick of it?" Mickey suddenly asked. His eyes didn't waver. Yet Ian heard the edge to Mickey's tone. The desperation. His eyes clung to Ian's.

"Sick of what, Mickey?" Ian asked, forcing himself to stay in place. Trying his damnedest not to reach out and grab hold of the boy before him.

When Mickey finally responded, his tone was even but full of sadness. "Everything," Mickey said.

Ian nodded. Yeah. He did get sick of everything. Quite often. But apparently not as sick of it all as Mickey, who had just burned his own home to the ground, with his father in it. Obviously planned, calculated, and on purpose. Ian didn't know whether to run far away or stick close by his once unstable lover. "Did you burn your house down?" Ian asked, feeling a need to clear the air. Obviously Mickey had.

Mickey's gaze finally faltered. He looked down at the burning brush in the barrel beside him. Stared at it a little too long. Ian watched him. In this lighting, Ian could see the slight shake to Mickey's breathing. Saw how Mickey breathed in and out of his mouth, no longer out of breath, just shocked it seemed. Shocked at his own actions. "Yeah," Mickey finally confessed, still looking into the small fire.

Chills ran down Ian's body. He actually shook, so he crossed his arms to cover up the reaction. But Mickey had already looked back at Ian, now daring Ian to condemn him, having seen the reaction. Daring Ian to say anything against Mickey's actions. And Ian stared back, knowing he wouldn't dare say anything. For one reason, he had no idea what he really thought. For two, Mickey may not have even realized it himself, but the youngest Milkovich son looked fragile. Ian could practically see the figurative little cracks spread all over Mickey's exposed flesh. Like a snake shedding its skin. So instead of speaking, Ian gathered up what was left of his bravery and reached out. The two stood barely a foot from one another, so the reach was short. Ian's fingers touched Mickey's bloody knuckles softly. Mickey jerked, but not fully away. Ian saw the scowl threatening to form on Mickey's face. Ian stilled his hand on Mickey's testing the waters. He would either be punched or accepted. Ian was prepared for either. It wouldn't be his first rejection by Mickey Milkovich. It would, however, be the last. Ian wouldn't try again. Not ever.

Mickey looked between Ian and their hands, then back to Ian. His face looked torn. His adam's apple bobbed hard. Sighing, Ian clenched his jaw and finished what he'd started. He slid his long fingers up to Mickey's wrist and took hold. Ian pulled, slowly walking backwards. Mickey stood firmly to the ground at first, unmoving, face scrunched in anger and turmoil. But he gave gave in. Gave in and walked the short distance to the lake's tide-line. When Ian let go and sat down, looking up at Mickey, expectantly, he figured it was then that Mickey would run. And the decision would be made.

The water washed over Ian's feet and wetted his sneakers. The sand dug into his bottoms. The wind gave Ian a chill as it blew about his tank-top. And he stared up at Mickey for only a second more before turning his face toward the water, just listening to the silence. Wondering if maybe silence had been around more often in Mickey's life, things would have turned out differently. Ian wasn't stupid. Mickey was eighteen now. Juvie wasn't where the courts would send Mickey when they found out what he'd done this time. And a year wouldn't be half the sentencing. Ian knew Mickey wasn't stupid either, and had probably already thought about the fact himself. Had probably been contemplating it while tossing rocks the other night. Ian stared into the darkness, listening to only Mickey's uneven breathing. Moments passed and Mickey hadn't ran. Hadn't sat down, either. Ian didn't look back at Mickey fully, though, for fear of jinxing whatever the hell was going on. Finally, Mickey slowly lowered himself crossed legged beside of Ian. And so they sat for moments more, not touching but only inches away. Not speaking, but saying more with actions than could have been said. Especially when Ian grew brave once more. He kept his eyes trained on the dark water. Took a deep breath, then quickly rested his hand on Mickey's shoulder, reassuringly. Because he kind of figured Mickey needed that, whether the asshole was going to ask for it or not. Would accept it or not. Mickey fucking needed a friend. Someone. And even though Ian didn't fully understand the way Mickey ticked, the reasons for burning his house and father, Ian wanted to be that someone. Thought maybe he might be the only person willing to give it one last shot.

Ian felt Mickey tense at his touch, and from the corner of his eyes, saw Mickey knit his brow, this time without anger. Mickey worried his busted lip. Stared ahead, just as Ian pretended to. Then brought his own hand up to lay atop Ian's. Ian's eyes widened and he found himself not breathing. Then exhaled quietly for a long while. Eventually Ian turned his face to get a good look at Mickey. Mickey's eyes were red-rimmed and watery, but no tears fell from them. His face was a perfect mask of indifference, save for his bright blue eyes.

Opening his mouth a few times, trying to say something, Mickey turned his neck to look back at Ian. "They won't know," Mickey finally said. "That I did it."

Ian searched Mickey's face, the other boy's words ringing through his hazy head.

"Too many people wanted him dead anyway," Mickey finished.

Unable to tare his eyes away from Mickey's face, Ian asked, "And if someone does find out it was you?"

Mickey shrugged, shifting their hands a little. "Then I guess they just will," Mickey said calmly. "Guess I'll be fucked." He smoothed his face out and his eyes slowly cleared up. Breathing somewhat normally now, Mickey looked Ian over. "What does murder earn a person?" he asked, rhetorically. "Life, I think."

Ian felt his throat closing up. Fought to rein in his racing heart. He shook his head, blinking a few times to stop the stinging in his eyes. "No," he whispered, not trusting his voice. "Thirty years or so," he corrected, "not life."

Mickey shrugged again. "Not like I had a shot at much, anyway" he said, eyes searching Ian's.

Ian felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. He felt his features twisting. "Shut up!" he hissed at Mickey. "You're so full of shit! Every thing you say is crazy!"

Facing remaining placid, Mickey watched Ian and said nothing.

Ian knew he was crying and hoped Mickey couldn't tell in the darkness. Though he probably could, given that Ian himself could see Mickey quite well, thanks to the burning barrel only about ten feet behind them. He tightened his grip on Mickey's shoulder. Mickey visibly winced and groaned, shifting his shoulder. Ian wondered that Mickey had probably fought with his father. Thus the cut neck, the black cheek, and probably a dislocated shoulder. He hadn't realized the latter until now, and started lifting his hand because Ian knew this was probably hurting Mickey. But as he lifted it a little, Mickey's grip on his hand tightened. Ian saw Mickey clench his jaw. He swallowed hard, forcing down the ball in his throat.

They were sitting close enough that Ian felt Mickey's hot breath graze his face. Mickey looked down between them. "Was he dead?" Mickey asked.

His breath was shaky as he inhaled. "I don't know," Ian said, staring at Mickey's hand. "Probably."

For while, Mickey didn't speak. And neither did Ian. The redhead just kept looking at the smaller boy, chest aching and stomach sick. He saw Mickey looked down at their hands, felt Mickey's shoulder twitch. Mickey squinted, grimacing. Ian tried to lift his hand again.

"Stop," Mickey said firmly, his grip on Ian's hand almost painful.

"But—''

"It's keeping me grounded."

And Ian didn't know how Mickey meant that. Honestly, he didn't much care. It felt good in some twisted way to be needed by Mickey Milkovich. Openly needed. So he kept his hand on Mickey's should, in Mickey's loosening grasp. Kept his eyes on Mickey's until Mickey was the first to look away. Mickey looked down and knitted his brow. Ian saw the left side of the other boy's mouth turn down. Twitch. Saw Mickey's nostrils flare. Saw Mickey's chest heave one good time. And knew Mickey was going to be sick. Ian had seen Mickey's tell-tale signs of nausea enough times; was very familiar. His own eyes widened and quickly Ian brought his other hand up to grab Mickey's chin and lift his face.

"Are you okay?" Ian asked, wary.

Scowling, Mickey breathed hard for a minute, swallowing repeatedly and shaking his head. Yet he didn't jerk away from Ian's hand. Staring at Ian hard, Mickey bit, "Does it fucking seem like I'm okay, Gallagher?"

And Ian kind of figured that was the most honest sentence to ever fall from Mickey's lips. A question to answer a question, but truthful nonetheless. "No," Ian said, frowning.

Mickey closed his eyes, breathing slowly and deep. Obviously trying to calm his stomach. He shifted his whole body so that he was fully facing Ian. This went on for a while. When Mickey finally opened his eyes, Ian wasn't sure what he expected. Not what he got. Definitely not that. "Hit me," Mickey said, deadpan.

Confused, Ian stared at Mickey, wordless. He'd also turned to a full face.

Patience wasn't a quality Mickey had much of. "I said hit me, god damn it, you fuck!" Mickey growled, fisting Ian's collar faster than Ian could catch his breathing.

Ian gasped, eyes wide, and looked at Mickey. Slowly he lowered his hand from Mickey's neck, only just realizing it hadn't left Mickey's body completely upon Mickey's sudden change in attitude.

"What?" Ian asked, breathless almost. "I'm not going to hit you," he continued, sounding as confused at he probably looked. "Why?"

Mickey bared his teeth. His grip on Ian's shirt was tight enough now to rip the collar. Face only an inch from Ian's now, Mickey laughed bitterly. " _Please_  hit me," he said sarcastically. A word Ian hadn't heard Mickey utter ever hung tensely in the air. "Fuck's sake," Mickey growled. "Just hit me, Ian! I need you to hit me now!" He was practically screaming, eyes crazed. Now both of his hands were around Ian's neck.

Quite frankly, given Mickey's quick temper and what had gone on at the Milkovich house tonight, Ian was a little terrified of the boy against him. And Ian hadn't been afraid of Mickey since before the two of them started fucking. After that, Ian had found it difficult to take any of Mickey's threats seriously. Except for once. But those words hadn't been threats. Those words had been a hurtful declaration. So, being as he was scared, Ian swallowed hard and let go of Mickey's shoulder. He balled up that fist, digging into the sand with his other hand. Suddenly feeling ill. His eyes trailed down to his own fist, and he winced. Shook his head as he looked back to the bruise on Mickey's cheek. The slice on his pale neck. "I can't, Mickey," Ian said quietly.

And Mickey slapped him. Hard. Then went back to twisting Ian's top. His eyes were determined as he sated into Ian's wide ones.

Holding his breath, Ian did as he was asked. Punched Mickey once square in the chin. But he hadn't used a lot of force. Hadn't used much at all really. Which could have been because of lack of momentum, given their closeness. But really it was purposeful. Ian had no fucking idea what was up and down anymore.

Mickey's head had turned a little at the pussy punch. He scrunched up his face and looked back at Ian. "The hell was that, even?" Mickey asked, shocked, then roared, "Come on! Like you mean it!"

Ian swallowed hard. His face still stung. He knew a hand print was probably forming on his cheek. Mickey's eyes squinted shut hard as he prepared himself. Waiting. Ian looked at his fist again, then back at Mickey's smoothed over face. "This is crazy," Ian whispered, more to himself. But nevertheless, he exhaled loud and long. Brought his fist up once more, and put his back into it. And honestly, it felt good. The punch felt amazing. Best one he'd ever thrown. He felt a release inside of him. Like he'd been dying to hit Mickey for forever. And maybe he had. Even though Ian's need for revenge hadn't been the reasons for Mickey's strange request, Ian felt a strange sense of closure.

Having fallen back a little, Mickey lost his grip on Ian. But only one hand. The other remained. Instead of fisting the shirt, though, Mickey's hand laid flat against Ian's chest. Because it had been jerked mostly loose. Mickey licked the reopened wound on his lip. Spat blood. Twisted his neck, grabbed his unhinged shoulder, and looked back at Ian. His eyes were calmer somehow. "Again," he said, searching Ian as if the redhead held some answer for Mickey's inner turmoil.

This time, Ian didn't argue. He hit Mickey hard. Then hit him again. By the third punch, Mickey was actually calling out and had fallen to his back, legs sprawling out awkwardly. Ian rose up, barely aware of his own actions. It happened so fast: Ian's heart racing away. His mind buzzing a million different thoughts and emotions at once. Hitting. Cussing Mickey. Suddenly Ian was straddling Mickey, continuing his assault. And finally Mickey seemed to get his fill. He brought his arms up, trying to fen Ian off of him. Ian punched a couple more times, hitting Mickey in the forearms and once in the chest. Yelling at Ian indiscernible, Mickey managed to wrangle Ian's flying wrists. Someone in the midst of the punches, Mickey's shoulder must had popped back into place. He seemed freer to move as he pulled Ian down at the same time he sat up a little. Still mostly laying back, Mickey held onto Ian. Both of them panted. Mickey's eyes were wide. Ian's were squinted and furious.

"Enough," Mickey panted, "Stop. Christ, fucking stop it!"

"What's wrong with you?" Ian moaned, holding Mickey's stare. "I hate you," he finished, voice breaking.

Mickey's eyes moved over Ian's face fast. Flicked to the small space between their chests. And as Ian shifted, ready to pull himself off of Mickey, Mickey pulled the redhead down completely, let go of one wrist, and tangled his hand on the back of Ian's shirt. Grasping the back of Ian's neck. Because of this, Ian's top came up in the back. The wind gave him goosebumps against his suddenly exposed flesh. Yet Ian hardly had time to focus on that because Mickey's tongue threatened to choke the life from him. At this point, Mickey was clearly having a hard time holding his torso up with his one sore arm, and fell flat into the sand with a quiet thud. His wind knocked out of him only momentarily, one quick gust shooting into Ian's stunned mouth. They lost contact and Ian rushed to gain it back. He fell flat with Mickey, his hands going out to the ground, splaying out in the sand. Mickey's fingers clawed at Ian's neck when their lips met again. Hard, painful, and needy. All teeth and a little blood from Mickey' busted lip. Sloppy and wet. Too much slobber on Mickey's end. Yet Ian lost himself in that kiss. In Mickey's groping hands. Finally they pulled apart, desperate for air. Ian dropped his forehead against Mickey's, their sweat mingling. And honestly, it wasn't even hot enough near the water to be sweating. Ian supposed it was their nerves. Cold, clammy sweat. Scared sweat.

Mickey looked up at Ian through his lashes and Ian's breath caught in his throat. Really, he did hate Mickey. But it was true. Had to be. To hate someone as much as Ian did Mickey Milkovich, Ian knew he must love the guy. In some sense of the word. But he was only sixteen; what did Ian really know of love? Was love a quick fuck in the cooler? A blow job in the dugouts? A screaming match over the last beer? A first makeout session after murder? The smell of gasoline and blood? Hateful words? Soft glances when no one was looking? Lies? Brutal honestly? Coming back again and again?

Ian remained still, waiting for Mickey to push him off. It never came. Mickey's hand eventually slid from Ian's neck and plopped into the sand. From beneath Ian, Mickey shifted for a more comfortable position, never once losing eye contact.

"I'm not sorry," Mickey finally said softly his breath ghosting Ian's lips. The statement could have been taken many ways. And Ian knew that Mickey knew it. He wasn't sorry for what? Killing his father? Being a fuck up? Breaking it off with Ian a year ago in the cruelest way possible? For kissing Ian just now? Ian wished Mickey would clarify, but knew the guy never would.

Mickey was toxic. He was poison. And Ian was practically already dead.


End file.
